This is Not Autobiographical
We had dinner that night at a rat-hole, a Godforsaken grill, a place we had tried to avoid and had done successfully for thirty years. We would have to celebrate our thirtieth wedding anniversary at Vito’s. This anniversary was supposed to be a festive occasion for any couple, but even more for people who have not touched the other in twenty years of a productive, thirty-year marriage.
First thing in the morning we shook hands, high-fived and said “yay.” I cleared my sinuses and Bob performed nasal irrigation with his Neti Pot. We wanted to feel ready for a celebration of family values. We was sweet. Underlying the mean newspapers lived an angel with nails of purl. We were both very nearsighted.
“Well,” said Bob.
“This calls for a bit of meat!”
This meant that Bob and I would settle for dinner at the squat, brick steak house on the place, the only place NOT full of pole-dancers from the Annual Conference and workshop here. Slim women with five-inch, spiky heels, in town again, holding hands, with menstrual concerns. Around the city, they clip-clopped.
As usual, we went everywhere without a car. We were the opposite of negligent. Long ago, we had a broken car which we sold to the washer and dryer repair-man. He never spoke to us again.