Did I throw my neck out? A vertebra? I can’t pinpoint it, but something vital in my spinal cord isn’t working like it has for the past thirty-three years.
He takes a second to upright himself fully, working his shoulders in small circles until he decides he can stretch out and maybe crack his back. He twists his torso side to side, his wince sharpening as he jolts with the motion, but it must not break his back because relief floods his face after a couple rounds of that, and he’s back to focusing on me.
“You okay, Di?” His lips brush my ear as his low voice makes itself heard and I nod.
“I think so.”
Suffice it to say, the mood has been killed. We’re both looking around the club, dejected, thanks to our forty-seven seconds of fun being ruined by the dangers and risks of aging.
“Wanna get out of here?” His eyes twinkle, reminiscent of a million times he’s used that line in the past.
“I don’t think we can go back to my place or yours right now. Where would we go?” I ask him, teasing.
He looks around for a second, then shrugs. “Anywhere but here.” We both do a little sad chuckle at how this night turned out. “Grab a bite to eat?” he offers.
I nod, and he takes my hand in one of his, then places the other at the base of my spine, and he escorts me out, away from the relentless pounding and pulsing that’s alotlouder than I remember it being when we used to do this regularly.
By the time we make it outside, it’s like a vise has been removed from the sides of my head. I can hear again. I can see again. My nostrils have fresh air once more, and a headache I didn’t even know was blossoming has dissipated. Relief. Instant fucking relief.
There’s a tapas bar across the street on the same block, so we head over there and manage to get a two-seater high top by the bar area, despite the crowd. It’s cozy, dim, smells fantastic, and while it’s buzzing, it’s a volume that allows for private conversations. Best of all? I don’t get even a hint of a headache just from walking through the doors.
Don’t tell my husband, he’ll never let me live it down, but I think we might be past our clubbing days. Ugh. Might as well throw me in a nursing home already.
Chance orders me another cocktail and opts for mineral water for himself, so there’s no question as to whether he can drive in a short while.
And after we take the server’s recommendation on the chef’s special (a seasonal selection), we talk. Husband and wife. About ourselves. Each other. Long-lost dreams, and ones we still harbor. Like we haven’t made the time to do in so,solong now.
Our food comes out, and we sample the tasty offerings, continuing our chat in between bites. Currently, I’m listening to the tales of Tony the Tool, his sales manager.
“What a fuckingprick!” I interject.
“I know! He’s worse than that guy we ran into on our honeymoon in the Virgin Islands, remember him?”
“Sure do.”
“The guy who tried to put his drinks on our tab, then denied it even when we confronted him with the waitstaff!” He elaborates unnecessarily, I know exactly who the fuck he’s referring to. “He’s like that schmuckandthat girl who came to you to get her face done before a photoshoot and then—"
“She left me a one-star review—"
“And demanded you redo her makeup for her next thing, or she’d keep trash talking you online!”
“Then when I redid her makeup foranotherevent for her, she upped her review to two stars as a thanks. Then took forty-five selfies to show off how good she looked in the parking lot, right outside my fucking window, before she drove off.”
Smoke might be coming out of my ears as we relive this chick’s antics. I’m shaking my head in remembrance, still pissed about that little blackmailing bitch. It would be one thing if she wasn’t happy with my services, but she clearly was, and just lied to get more free shit out of me. Hate rip-off artists. The bane of a small business owner, especially a creative solopreneur like me.
“Yeah!” Chance continues enthusiastically. “Tony’s being worse than both of them together right now. He’s always been a slimeball, but the better my numbers get, I think he’s feeling threatened, and he just gets nastier and nastier, as long as Ellie or Thomas aren’t around to catch him, he’s been upping his sketch factor.”
My nose scrunches in distaste and my entire body shivers in revulsion. “Do I need to tell Ellie?” I threaten-slash-offer the trump card. An instant win for him. Might be a slight hit to his ego, but this guy needs to fuck off, and going above his head might be the only way to get that done quickly.
My bestie doesn’townthe company Chance works for outright. Technically, her dad is the big boss, but she’s right up there with him. She’s the CEO of the digital marketing side.
Truthfully, she is so focused on her work, I can’t keep up with half of what she passionately explains to me about that place and her plans for it on our rare dates. God forbid she and Chance get together outside the office, you’ll never get them to shut up or talk about anything else.
Unless it’s country music (shudder) and that might just be even worse.
“Nah, you tattling wouldn’t be helpful, baby.” He shoots me a playful smirk with his trademark wink.
“Well, if he’s gonna keep stealing your deals and fucking over your clients, someone better put that motherfucker in his place!”
