Breakfast Tucker sat at his favorite stool, sipped his coffee and waited for his usual three eggs scrambled, home fries, baked beans, three bacon strips plus his grilled--not toasted--English muffins. and Emma's pert smile. He wiped his sweaty palms against the thighs of his work pants. Yesterday, he promised himself that today he'd ask her to dinner, offer to take her someplace in the city, a place with tablecloths and thick steaks and wine on a separate menu (if she liked wine). He'd open doors for her, compliment her on her dress and tell her how he almost had enough saved for a little ranch and a few acres; a place for a family someday. Emma set his breakfast in front of him with one hand, topped off his mug from the pot in her other and asked, "That all?" Tucker swallowed hard, cleared his throat and mumbled, "Thanks." Coffee Break Mary Rose gophered her head above their shared cubicle partition to announce in one long word, "KrispyKremesinthebreakroombetterhurryifyouwantone!" Justine nodded but concentrated on her key pad. She wanted to send off a quick message to Ryan during break (god forbid if she took care of personal business on company time!), something casual, breezy, to allay his fears (if he had any) about last night. Not that she had anything to be sorry about; she didn't actually say the word; no, she wouldn't do that, not on the fourth date, but she did get caught up in the moment and rolled a long "L". He seemed a little quiet after that, mumbled something about casual, but she wanted him to understand she was totally on board with that, she wanted to take it slow, well, for now anyway, and wouldn't push him into an exclusive relationship or... thank god(!) her cell phone beeped. Justine stared at the message, tears blurring the words, not sure what hurt worse: losing the new love of her life, or learning "it's over" by text. Lunch Bernie stared at the tired, pony-tailed woman for several moments before he recognized her as "Mrs. John Doe" -- as in the female half of the weekly nooner couple at The Roadside Inn. She looked so ordinary, shopping on Saturday afternoon, absently throwing groceries in a buggy as she frowned at her glum pre-teen son while cooing to a fussy baby. No one would have guessed that every Wednesday, Bernie handed a room key to the winking "Mr. John Doe" before both of them watched this woman, "Mrs. John Doe" sashay toward the elevator, long hair rippling across her back, tight dress accenting her shapely bottom. A man balancing a toddler on his shoulders rounded the corner and dropped diapers into the ordinary woman's shopping cart. He tickled the baby, bent to kiss "Mrs. John Doe" on the cheek and then said something that made the glum boy smile. Refusing to ruin their mid-week fantasy, Bernie ducked behind a cereal display, hiding his Wednesday face from the Saturday, marriedto-each-other, Mr. and Mrs. John Doe.
Drinks Applying lipstick, Paige saw her reflection wince. What right did those heroin-chic waifs have to judge her, labeling her a "cougar"? As Paige saw it, she was a female version of Hugh Hefner, the man who said his tastes never changed -- he always preferred twenty year old women. Paige returned to the bar, chastising herself to just ignore the mojito-drinkingcackling-bulimics. She winked at the bartender with the bedroom eyes while waving a portrait of Andrew Jackson and ordered a woman's drink: double bourbon neat. After forty, one learned the real secret to animal magnetism. Dinner "Have more potatoes, there's plenty," she told him without checking his plate. Irritated, he asked, "Why do you make so much when there's only the two of us?" She looked out the window at the swirling leaves and said, "Tomorrow you should call Jacob, tell him to come over and help you with the gutters." He stopped pretending to have any appetite, pushed aside his plate harder than intended, glad for the sharp ching when it slammed the glass, an affirmation that he still had power. "My son should offer to help-- if I needed help -- but I don't; if you'd only...." He glared at her gray-streaked part, fuming that she stared at her peas, wishing she would stop pitying his diminishment. Dessert Roger touches her waist, laughing. Pleased her stories still amuse him, Julie leans into his hug. He dries the dishes, she scoops their ice cream. They settle into their recliners, turn on Jeopardy. Forty-eight years together and counting. Yeah, they'll make it.
6S