Vicariously Single

My lovely niece (20-year-old, and stop it) joined me for dinner last night. I have this thing about eating at the bar. Guess I’ve grown accustomed to the plus-zero. We sat next to a married couple who was fifty-ish.

Much as a committed woman has a way of inserting her boyfriend into conversations with me, I make it known that the specimen on my left is related to me—not a bed-warming woman of low self-esteem or mail-order bride. Guess I could wear a t-shirt saying “I’m with Relative,” to avoid all the nose wrinklage. Meh. Fuck ’em.

Anywho, this isn’t about incest; it’s about the married couple. The wife sat on my right, smiled a greeting my way (after realizing I’m not boinking an infant), then eavesdropped like no other. I guess like so many others in marital Blissville, she chose opportunity over boredom. My niece continually rolled her eyes as she watched the wife react to every statement. Her husband sat there contemplating a large slice of cheesecake laced with morphine.

I assured my niece that wives like her are as prevalent as white Prius cars here in San Diego. I can spot them from across any bar, attending the dreaded date night with a festering boil. Some wives are able to hide their disdain with vodka. Others sit there in an emotional state similar to having their teeth cleaned.

Not only can I spot these unhappily married peeps, but I can also read their minds.

Wife:

“Twenty years of marriage should be more than enough. I should have gotten out at ten.”

“Maybe if I have a little side thing like Janice, I won’t need all those painkillers.”

“I wish my husband was called away to work. Then, this guy next to me would be treated to one helluva cock draining sex rodeo.”

“All I need right now is a hot bath with Vogue magazine and my waterproof vibrator.”

Husband:

“Why can’t Kemp hit fucking home runs at Petco?”

“If this guy is banging that 20-year-old, he is my hero.”

“If the wife orders dessert again, I’m buying another watch.”

“Wonder if I could sneak a fart out, and blame it on the bartender.”

At one point, ESPN showed a baseball player getting beaned. I told the niece the best place to take it is “in the ass.” As soon as the words left my lips, I cringed at the innuendo. The silence in the bar was deafening, but I’d bet anything the wife got a bit dewy by the thought of something new.

About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.

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