my fork around on my plate. Then I leaned forward and whispered, “But is it normal to…to have fantasies about other men?”
Sharon didn’t answer right away. She took a sip of her water first, which made me wonder if my question had shocked her.
But she said, “I think fantasies are fine. If they help your sex life, why not? It’s a hell of a lot better than some of the things I’ve heard some of our neighbors have done to spice up their love lives.”
I was about to ask if she would still feel that way if all the fantasies were about the same man, but the waitress arrived at our table right then.
“Are you still eating your dessert?” she asked, nodding toward my half-eaten key lime pie.
“No. Please, take it away. I’m stuffed.” I pushed the dessert plate toward her.
“Can I get you ladies anything else?”
“We’re fine, thank you,” I said. “Just bring me the bill, please.”
“Actually, you can bring me the bill,” Sharon said. “It’ll be my treat.”
“That’s not necessary, Sharon,” I told her. “I can take care of it.”
“Lucky for both of you,” the waitress interjected, “the bill’s already been settled.”
I stared up at her in confusion. “But I didn’t give you my card.”
“Are you Elsie Kolstad?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Your husband called in.” Now the woman smiled. “He gave us his credit card and strict instructions to charge the bill to him.”
I looked across the table at Sharon. She shrugged.
“Oh,” I said lamely. “So it’s already been paid.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the waitress replied. “I wish my husband was so thoughtful.”
“Yeah,” I responded, making sure to keep my voice cheery.
It wasn’t the first time Robert had called ahead to pay my dinner bill, even if I was just out for the evening with friends. The first time he’d done it, I’d considered the gesture chivalrous.
Not today. Today, it seemed like control.
7
Despite my lack of appetite for dessert, Sharon and I sat on the sofa munching on popcorn and watching a teen slasher flick that we’d picked up from a variety store—a movie that neither of us had heard of, starring no-name actors. The special effects were so pathetic and the story line so incredible that the movie wasn’t scary in the least. In fact, it was laughable.
We were watching a shower scene now, with a big-busted woman who seemed more interested in touching herself than getting clean, lathering soap over her breasts and ass in what was meant to be an erotic display.
“All right, all right, we get it,” Sharon mumbled. “Can we move on with the plot, please?”
“What plot?” I asked, laughing.
“Why are there never any naked guys in these movies?” she asked.
“Because the writers and producers are men. And they obviously don’t think that women enjoy seeing a nice male ass, too.”
Sensing a noise, the actress paused with her hands on her nipples, which she had caressed to an erect state. The music’s tempo had picked up, indicating that danger was imminent. The blonde-haired beauty asked, “Who’s there?” and then playfully, “Donnie, is that you?”
Though Sharon and I had to know what was coming, that when the woman pulled back the shower curtain she would face the masked killer, we screamed when it happened. The woman’s eyes went wide with terror, and the killer raised a large butcher knife. She started to scream, but it was too late, and a moment later blood sprayed all over the bathroom.
Or tomato juice.
The gruesome murder completed, the killer muttered, “Nice tits.”
“Right,” Sharon said in an exaggerated tone. “That’s realistic.”
I started to laugh. So did she. The movie might have been stupid, but it was just what we needed—something so far from reality that it wouldn’t remind Sharon of the loss of her husband.
The scene went from the gruesome one in the bathroom to a college campus. I picked up a handful of popcorn—extra butter
Sharon didn’t answer right away. She took a sip of her water first, which made me wonder if my question had shocked her.
But she said, “I think fantasies are fine. If they help your sex life, why not? It’s a hell of a lot better than some of the things I’ve heard some of our neighbors have done to spice up their love lives.”
I was about to ask if she would still feel that way if all the fantasies were about the same man, but the waitress arrived at our table right then.
“Are you still eating your dessert?” she asked, nodding toward my half-eaten key lime pie.
“No. Please, take it away. I’m stuffed.” I pushed the dessert plate toward her.
“Can I get you ladies anything else?”
“We’re fine, thank you,” I said. “Just bring me the bill, please.”
“Actually, you can bring me the bill,” Sharon said. “It’ll be my treat.”
“That’s not necessary, Sharon,” I told her. “I can take care of it.”
“Lucky for both of you,” the waitress interjected, “the bill’s already been settled.”
I stared up at her in confusion. “But I didn’t give you my card.”
“Are you Elsie Kolstad?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Your husband called in.” Now the woman smiled. “He gave us his credit card and strict instructions to charge the bill to him.”
I looked across the table at Sharon. She shrugged.
“Oh,” I said lamely. “So it’s already been paid.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the waitress replied. “I wish my husband was so thoughtful.”
“Yeah,” I responded, making sure to keep my voice cheery.
It wasn’t the first time Robert had called ahead to pay my dinner bill, even if I was just out for the evening with friends. The first time he’d done it, I’d considered the gesture chivalrous.
Not today. Today, it seemed like control.
7
Despite my lack of appetite for dessert, Sharon and I sat on the sofa munching on popcorn and watching a teen slasher flick that we’d picked up from a variety store—a movie that neither of us had heard of, starring no-name actors. The special effects were so pathetic and the story line so incredible that the movie wasn’t scary in the least. In fact, it was laughable.
We were watching a shower scene now, with a big-busted woman who seemed more interested in touching herself than getting clean, lathering soap over her breasts and ass in what was meant to be an erotic display.
“All right, all right, we get it,” Sharon mumbled. “Can we move on with the plot, please?”
“What plot?” I asked, laughing.
“Why are there never any naked guys in these movies?” she asked.
“Because the writers and producers are men. And they obviously don’t think that women enjoy seeing a nice male ass, too.”
Sensing a noise, the actress paused with her hands on her nipples, which she had caressed to an erect state. The music’s tempo had picked up, indicating that danger was imminent. The blonde-haired beauty asked, “Who’s there?” and then playfully, “Donnie, is that you?”
Though Sharon and I had to know what was coming, that when the woman pulled back the shower curtain she would face the masked killer, we screamed when it happened. The woman’s eyes went wide with terror, and the killer raised a large butcher knife. She started to scream, but it was too late, and a moment later blood sprayed all over the bathroom.
Or tomato juice.
The gruesome murder completed, the killer muttered, “Nice tits.”
“Right,” Sharon said in an exaggerated tone. “That’s realistic.”
I started to laugh. So did she. The movie might have been stupid, but it was just what we needed—something so far from reality that it wouldn’t remind Sharon of the loss of her husband.
The scene went from the gruesome one in the bathroom to a college campus. I picked up a handful of popcorn—extra butter
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