Getting Older

“Another one?” The bartender asked.

“Oh uh, not yet, there’s still a little in there.” The wife said. She was still pretty in a certain light. At least pretty enough for a younger man to offer to buy her a drink she hoped.

“Okay,” her husband squeezed in beside her. “Where were we?” He was still handsome, albeit having a dad bod and thinning hair, but he still had some charisma. He could still be a party animal if the situation called for it.

“Where were we? Where were you? I’ve almost finished my drink already.” The wife said.

“Yeah, the line was nuts. I almost forgot about that. That’s alright though, just get another.”

“Na, I’m not sure what I want anyways.”

“Well, I’m going to have another beer. That first one went right through me,”

“I guess that means you’ll be abandoning me again for another bathroom run soon.”

“Oh lighten up. Come on, you’ve been saying how you’ve been wanting to get out of the house, hit up a bar like old times.”

“I know, it’s just not what I remember. Whatever happened to Mickey’s? Do you remember Mickey’s?”

“That old dive bar on Coast Highway?”

“Yeah.” Her eyebrows shot up.

“Yeah, I think it’s some hipster bar now.”

“Oh.” Her eyebrows lowered.

“Hey, remember that time I rode the mechanical bull at that one bar?”

“Haha, oh yeah, you looked like a rag-doll. What was that bar called?”

“Saddle Bar, and gee thanks. I told her, `Go easy on me, I’m doing it for as a request for the birthday girl.’”

“Oh that’s right, it was my thirtieth.”

“Yeah, and you know what she said?”

“What?”

“She said if you want me to go easy, you better tip me.”

“Well did you tip her?”

“Obviously not. She kicked my ass. I would have, but I wasn’t carrying any cash that night.”

The wife laughed.

“I had bruises on my thighs all week from trying to hang on.”

She chuckled a little more, sighed, and then said, “Well, we’re not in our thirties anymore. Hell, not even in our forties.”

“Oh come on.” He put his arms around her. “Let’s get another drink, and hey, how about we dance?”

“You don’t dance, and after all these years I don’t dance either.” She dipped a long slender finger into her glass fishing for an olive.

“Maybe,” He smirked, “but they don’t know that.”

“Oh alright.”

“Yes, now we’re talking.” He swatted the bar. “Excuse me.” He signaled the bartender.

The bartender made his way over. “Another?”

“Two shots please.”

“What?” The wife said.

“Tequila.”

“Coming up.”

“No, no, no, no. No one said anything about shots.”

“Come on,” He danced backward then towards her again. ”You said go out for drinks. Can you really call it going out if you don’t take any shots?”

“Lime and salt?” The bartender asked.

“For her, yes. Me, no. Thank you.”

“I don’t know about this.” The wife said.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks. Let’s do this.”

“Ugh.”

“Woo!”

“Yuck.”

“Haven’t done that in ages.” The husband said.

“And for good reason. What was wrong with us? Was it undeveloped taste buds or an undeveloped prefrontal cortex that kept up this crap?”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad. Come on, Honey. You’ve got to loosen up now.”

“No no, now I think I’m nauseous.” She went back to fishing for an olive.

“Great. Well, I suppose we could just sit here like old people.”

“We are old people.“ She stuck the olive with her toothpick and twirled it in her glass.

“What? Is that what this is about?”

“Can we just go?”

“Is that what you really want to do?”

She slowly put the olive in her mouth and pulled out the clean toothpick. “Yeah, I think I’m ready.”

“Alright, fine. I’ll get the check.”