Weekend Get Away
In order to rekindle a little magic in our 30+ year marriage (I'll take, ‘examples of interminable' for 200, Alex), every once in a while, Cupcake and I will have a weekend getaway at an area motel. It is kind of pricey, given we have adequate accommodations for no extra charge just 15 kilometres down the highway, at the place we call home. However, this motel stop on the road to sanity is quite a popular First World solution to a universal problem of marital bliss burnout. As expensive as a runaway weekend might be, it’s much cheaper than psychiatrists, defense attorneys and appendage reattachment professionals.
Cupcake and I decided to try a little razzle-dazzle this time. After I had booked the room, I had arranged to be dropped off at a nearby lounge to meet Cupcake. The idea was that we were going to try a little role playing. I would "pick her up" for a secret tryst, whisking her away to our little love nest complete with fireplace and Jacuzzi (although no bearskin rug for fear of PETA protestors). I must say it took a lot of convincing to get Cupcake onside with the role-playing scheme. Eventually she agreed, although utterly refused the wig and hot sequined number I had thoughtfully bought for the occasion.
When the big day came, I thanked my son for the ride and advised him I'd rather he didn't come in.
"What a shame," he smirked, "and I’m so terribly interested in the courtship rituals of the common fogey, too. Believe me, you couldn't pay me to go in there with you."
In the lounge I observed Cupcake had already arrived and was seated at a table. I casually slid into a booth and waited for her to make eye contact. And waited.
A young man whom I would be asking ID of if he wasn't taking my drink order, smiled when I asked what the lady at the bar was drinking.
"Ah yes, the diet 7-Up with two ice-cubes in a tall glass with a straw," the youngster nodded, an odd smile flitted across his lips but he clamped down on it quickly. Not bad control… for a punk kid.
"I would like to buy her a drink," I told the lad. "And I will have a pint of whatever light beer you have on tap."
"Coming right up." he smiled as he texted the order to another punk kid tending bar. I grudgingly admired their efficiency and hoped the company subsidized their cellular bill.
Suddenly, my blood ran cold. As Ricky turned heel to fetch the order, another server brought Cupcake another drink. The waitress was a young lady who was dressed so provocatively, if a girl wore that in my day, she'd be arrested for indecency. It was obviously a cheap ploy to get tips. As I surveyed her obviously apparent assets I had to admit it would have worked on me had she been my server… and if Cupcake wasn't watching, as she had been the second I ogled the waitress.
I noted how Cupcake must have asked the young tip troller who had sent the drink and I saw the girl respond by gesturing toward a gentleman in another booth. Well, he was not so much a gentleman as a wife-poaching butt-ugly, creeper, but I did have to admire his taste.
As soon as the little server girl left, Mr. Creeper sauntered over and planted his butt on the chair across from Cupcake. I could see her giggle and point at the wedding ring on her finger. The creepazoid shrugged. Shrugged! Cupcake said something just as Ricky placed her third soft-drink in front of her. Although I couldn't hear the conversation, I could make out the priceless expression on Mr. Suddenly Awkward. It was like the surprise on a moth when the light it is attracted to, turns out to be a scorching Coleman lantern. He slunk back to his table to minutely study the label on his beer bottle.
I went over to Cupcake feeling rather smug. "Okay, Babe, let's go," I snickered. "This is obviously not going as expected."
"I'm sorry," Cupcake looked at me blankly. "Do I know you, Sir?"
"Very funny," I grunted. "Come on. There's no sense hanging around here anymore. Let's go to the motel room"
"I beg your pardon," she feigned shock. "I'm not that kind of girl!"
"No kidding," I smirked. "You go to a bar by yourself to drink diet 7-Up? Now stop being silly and come on."
"What? And waste all these free drinks?" She giggled. "You would never let me live it down. Besides, you're supposed to romance me and sweep me off my feet. I don't call, 'Come on, let's go to a motel,' as very feet sweeping."
"Oh for heaven’s sake," I began to get irritated.
"Is this guy bothering you?" asked the grim creeper who had decided he hadn't been embarrassed enough as yet.
"Sorry, my friend," I smiled. "I saw her first."
"I don't think so," he squinted suspiciously, "I was here when she came in."
"Maybe,, but I’ve been married to her for three decades," I said triumphantly.
"That doesn't mean you're not bothering her," he pointed out. "In fact, it makes it more likely."
"It's okay," Cupcake advised Creepface. "He doesn't so much bother me as amuse me. So if you will excuse us..."
Once more the shifty claim jumper went back to his table to brood and scratch his prominent brow ridge.
After a short, slightly heated debate as to whether she should join me or I should join her, (“Jeez you guys must be married,’ from the Creep) I went to fetch my drink. (I had less to carry.)
As we sat together rekindling, I recall staring into her beautiful eyes and thinking, ‘She is never going to let me hear the end of this one.’
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