Night in Shining Enamor

Allison isn’t mean, or at least not intentionally. Even that isn’t quite the truth though. I often think, and say to anyone who will listen, including Allison, that she is too smart for her own good. Too smart for the good of those around her would probably be more accurate.

I’m brought back to sudden awareness by the overly-loud clatter of silverware somewhere in the dull murmur of the restaurant behind me. Across the table, with her strawberry blond hair made a radiant mane backlit by the setting sun over Heron Lake, Allison is a gilded lily. Even working the garden in baggy jeans, muddy shirt, and pony tail she is beautiful. Here, she is mesmerizing. I return from this second reverie as my gaze drifts from the freckle-kissed cheeks to her minimalist smile, the tolerant one she uses when she is trying to patiently wait for me to slowly grind my way to a reply. Especially in emotionally challenging times my brain seems to flee the scene, sometimes like tonight, darting and bolting like a hare that has scented unclear danger in the wind.

“I said I’m happy to pay for the dinner tonight, unless that’s a problem for you?” she says, trying to drag me back to the conversation.

“You know I prefer to…”

“Yes, I do know. I’m just suggesting that it makes sense for you to evolve your preferences. You don’t have to pay because of some outdated social norms. We don’t even need to split the bill. Charlie, I’m so tired of having to lion-tame your ego every time we have an expense. It makes money a constant distraction… an interruption to our lives. At some point in every date we have to put a spotlight on the fact I make more money than you. Not just a bit more, Charlie, but an order of magnitude more.”

“We both know that, Allison. It isn’t a secret.”

“If I was dying of cancer, you know what I wouldn’t want, Charlie? I wouldn’t want someone to say to me every few minutes ‘Hey, you’re dying of cancer.’ Just because a thing is true doesn’t mean it belongs in my head.”

She leans forward, reaching for a sip of water. I know it isn’t premeditated, it simply couldn’t be, but the motion of her cleavage rivets my attention. In most circumstances I can ignore her body if I need to and keep my attention on the conversation and be dimly aware my libido is annoyed at the restriction. This conversation though has me floundering. I’m suddenly aware of my lengthy gaze, and so, apparently, is Allison. She smiles, bemused. She intentionally gives a better peek and a bit of a jiggle. She’s always willing to tease me with her body, indulge or even invite my lusty interest, but I suspect there is a combination of amusement and judgement - that somehow I should be beyond her ability to influence.

“Maybe you should let me pay without argument and then we can move on to more interesting topics,” she says, pressing her arms together, jutting her breasts forward in truly stunning fashion. It is a playful manipulation. Blatant and flirtatious and not at all mean-spirited. This is the quandary of Allison: caring and honest yet somehow frustrating and annoying.

I look at her face, not taking the bait. “This wouldn’t have to be a big deal if you didn’t make it a big deal every time. You know my preference and you still push against it all the time.”

“Put yourself in my shoes,” she says. “You see me as constantly thwarting your preferences. Don’t you see that you are also constantly ignoring my preferences? We’re in the same boat, Charlie! Except that my preference makes sense. I make more money. We are engaged. Soon all our money will be in one account and will really be our,” she emphasizes the word, “money. Your preferences are based on cultural expectations that make no sense!”

So reasonable. So rational. For some reason I feel insulted and want to walk out. I picture myself standing up in a huff and storming out of The Beachside, with a ‘fine, pay if you want’ cast over my shoulder. My brain again escaping the current situation, the scene plays out for several seconds until Allison speaks again.

“We don’t have to play by the rules, Charlie. We can decide for ourselves the kind of relationship we want. We don’t have to copy the marriage our parents have, we can design our own.”

“My parents have a fine marriage,” I say, feeling like this has suddenly expanded from my own caveman failings to an attack on my whole family.

“‘Fine marriage'. Is that what we are aiming for? A ‘fine marriage’? Your parents are just putting in days on their life sentence, just like my parents. They are trapped in their own blindness and can’t see that life could be different.”

“They’re happy,” I say, and I notice that even to me my tone lacks conviction.

“I want you have sex with other women.”

“Wait. What? Are you breaking up with me?”

“Of course not, silly. I love and adore you. And you should be fucking other women. I want to watch you sometimes. Probably most of the time, actually,” see says with a sudden far-away and glazed look. “You don’t have to have secret fantasies about the cheerleaders at half-time, like your poor frustrated dad. You can bring one home and sink your married…”

“Hey! Hey! Whoa!” I can’t tell if I’m turned on or appalled.

“What?” she says.

Is she really oblivious to how crazy that sounds? I glance at the other tables, absolutely certain they’ve all gone quiet to listen to my fiancé recite public pornography. “I can’t have sex with other women! We’re… engaged!” I whisper-yell at her.

“See that woman over there in the tight green dress? I know your type. You would absolutely ravish her given the chance.”

“I would not!” I splutter, and we can both tell it is a well-intentioned lie. I never lie to Allison, and the blatant lie now surprises me. No, Allison isn’t mean. She’s just beating me to death with crazy talk disguised as ‘reason’. I feel like the world is tipping sideways. Actually, I think I am getting some vertigo. The skin-tight sheer green fabric gripping that lady’s ass replays in my head. I think I might throw up.

“Who's going to do the cooking when we are married?”

I look at her like a goldfish. “Are you fucking insane?”

“Seems like something we should work out. Who is cooking, you or me?”

I try to follow. The quick subject change assault has me reeling. I sit back in my chair, more slumping than sitting really. I find myself staring stupidly at the dinner roll. “I … umm,” I start, then stare at the dinner roll some more.

“Listen, I’ll make this easy for you. Who cooks in your parent’s home?”

I look up at her, perplexed “My mom.”

“And who cooks in my parent’s home”

“Your mom.”

“Think carefully, Charlie. Does any of that mean I should be the cook in our home?”

“Well…” I falter. “You…”

“Yes?”

“No, I guess not. You’re a great cook and I’ve just been assuming…”

“Stop right there. Say that again.”

Thinking I said it wrong I try again. “I thought you liked cooking and would want to…”

“Wait. You said ‘You’re a great cook and I’ve…’ ”

“I assumed you would want to do the cooking.”

“And there is our problem, Charlie. You haven’t taken the time to carefully consider what you believe and why you believe it. You want to pay for dinner, and not bang the lady in the green dress, and have me cook because that’s what you assume the world expects.”

“That’s not fair. I’ve thought a lot about my life.”

“Darling, no you haven’t. You’ve just played the same song in your head that everyone else is singing. I’m not going to marry a robot, Charlie. You’re going to do some thinking or we aren’t going to make it. Please. Please shake loose of your chains.”

I could tell it wasn’t a threat. It was a plea. “I… I’m not sure how. I’ve always thought I was pretty progressive and free-thinking.”

Allison tilts her head to one side and raises an eyebrow, then she nonchalantly shrugs out of her dress, letting it pool around her waist. She continues eating her meal, back straight, bare breasts for the world to see. I’m paralyzed. Time grinds to a halt. Make a commotion? Yell at her to put her tits away?

“What are you doing?” I finally blurt. My eyes flicker between her rosy nipples and blushing cheeks. I’m fairly certain I hear gasps somewhere a million miles away.

She smiles sweetly at me, her embarrassment barely showing. “Bare chests are legal in New Mexico. I’m not going to live my life bound by expectations that make no sense.”

As we are escorted out of The Beachside, the manager asks Allison to cover up. I refuse to make inane apologies or embarrass Allison further by acting as if she is in the wrong. Allison cinches her dress around her waist, like a sweater no longer needed on a warm afternoon hike, and begins walking proudly to the front door. Failing the effort to get her to dress, the manager doesn’t make a fuss. She walks alongside Allison casually.

“And how was your dinner this evening?”

“Lovely! We did have a bit of a disagreement over who was buying. I hope we didn’t disturb any of the other guests?”

“Oh no, not at all.”

When we get to the register, Allison stops to pay. I realize that while breasts are not inherently sexual, something about her digging topless through her purse at the register is sexier than a stripclub.

“Perhaps tonight can be our treat?” the manager suggests as she pushes open the front door for us, the wind catching at her sleek green dress.

“Or you can send us the bill,” suggests Allison, handing her a business card as we slip out the door.

------------------------------------

Suddenly realizing that Bill is still looking at me expectantly, I break from my reminiscence. I give Allison's hand a squeeze, “It’s complicated, Bill. Suffice to say that my wife and I can’t join you for dinner at The Beachside. Perhaps a local steak house?”