Page 70 of Marriage and the Midlife Crisis

“I’ve missed this. Us, being on the same wavelength,” he clarified. He looked at his phone again and scrolled through his list.

“So, what do you think of my plan? If you agree, I have a great idea for our first official date.”

“I think your plan sounds like a pretty good start. Tell me about this date.”

He scratched his chin, then cocked his head to look me in the eye.

“How do you feel about going to a rage room?”

Chapter 24

Ryan

“Now, if you folks will just sign this waiver, I’ll get your safety gear. You’ll need to each wear a hard hat, this safety visor to protect your face and neck, gloves, and one of these coveralls over here.”

The manager of the rage room gestured to a rack filled with the kind of thick coveralls that mechanics typically wear. His voice bounced off the cinder block walls, and Melanie looked at me with wide eyes as she glanced around the building. It was once a small warehouse, which had been divided into the main office/lobby area, as well as several separate rooms, each with a large glass window facing the lobby.

“I understand that you brought a few props of your own to smash along with the items we provide?”

I picked up the cardboard box I’d brought and handed it to him to look over. Melanie gasped when she spied the handle of a golf club sticking out of the top.

“What is all that?” she whispered as the manager, Greg, inspected the contents. He pulled out several framed photos of Mitch and me, as well as the golf trophy we’d won over the summer.

“That, sweetness, is my favorite putter, and you’re going to use it to smash the absolute shit out of those photos of Mitch, and the trophy, and all of the assorted dishes and electronics the rage room supplies.”

“We also have a baseball bat and a sledgehammer for you to use if you want,” Greg told her with a wink.

We both suited up, and Melanie looked adorable in the coveralls that swamped her frame. I snapped a quick picture and she rolled her eyes. While Greg helped her secure the chin strap of the hard hat and handed her the visor, he explained to both of us that we could only go into the rage room one at a time.

“The other one of you will have to wait out here for safety reasons. This is tempered glass,” he said, rapping his knuckles on the observation window, “so you’re perfectly safe standing here to watch. You have thirty minutes to go in there and smash everything in sight. We have stacks of plates and dishware, assorted knickknacks, glassware, small electronics, and an old flat screen TV. You can whack it all with the bat or the hammer, or this putter, I guess,” he added, looking at me as if I’d lost my mind for bringing that for Melanie to destroy.

“You can throw shit against the cinder block walls, just avoid this wall with the window. Even though it’s tempered glass, there’s no sense testing it out. Just beat the shit out of all of it. Yell and scream if you want. Let out all your rage, honey. The room isn’t totally soundproof though, so don’t tell any secrets,” he joked.

“We’ll give you some mood music, too.” He motioned to the laptop on the counter. “I can play anything you want on the sound system, or if you don’t have a preference, we usually just blast some heavy metal to set the mood.”

A slow smile slid across Melanie’s face as she tested the weight of the putter in her hand. “Heavy metal will work just fine,” she told him, and then turned to face me.

“This is brilliant.” She beamed at me, then slipped the visor on over her face and pulled on the heavy duty work gloves. She gave me a little wave as I snapped another picture. I took yet another one with her propping the putter on her shoulder and giving me a jaunty little salute.

“I’m going in,” she told me, shooting me a wink. Greg opened the door for her, and my ears were assaulted by a cacophony of clashing drums and cymbals, and the screech of a guitar. I had no idea what the song was, but it seemed like the perfect accompaniment for beating the holy hell out of a pile of random stuff.

He set the box I’d brought inside the room with her, then pantomimed throwing things at the walls and beating the huge flat-screen TV that was lying on the floor in the middle of the room. She gave him a thumbs up, and he exited the room, carefully shutting the door behind him.

He ambled back over to the front desk, and I took up my position in front of the window. I held my phone up so that I could take a video, then watched in slack jawed amazement as Melanie raised the putter high above her head, then brought it down in the middle of the TV screen. Although I couldn’t hear it over the pounding music, I could tell she was screaming something that looked an awful like “fuck you” over and over. I really hoped like hell those curses were directed at Mitch, but I figured that at least one of them was probably meant for me.

The screen shattered, although the protective coating kept the shards from flying all over the room. Over and over she slammed the putter down, until there wasn’t an inch of that big-screen TV left undamaged. She stopped, chest heaving from her exertion, and held up the putter to look at it. The shaft was bent in at least two places. Melanie threw back her head and laughed, then launched the mangled club at the wall, where it bounced off and clattered to the floor.

I started laughing, too, and Greg wandered back over to see what was going on. He got to the window just in time to watch her pick up the bat, then pluck the golf trophy out of the box. She tossed it in the air, then swung the bat with everything she had. The cheap trophy exploded into a dozen pieces and Mel did a cute little victory dance. Greg chuckled along with me and clapped me on the shoulder.

“She’s got one helluva temper. I wouldn’t wanna make that little lady mad,” he joked, and I smiled, because Melanie’s temper was a fucking glorious sight.

She took out the pictures of Mitch and me next, selfies that we’d taken at various times since he’d moved back. After she’d agreed to this yesterday, I’d printed them out and bought some cheap frames to put them in. She placed them in a row on top of the busted TV screen, then picked up the sledgehammer. She smashed them one by one, and I could see her mouth move as she shouted again, likely cussing the both of us to hell and back.

She spent the rest of her time flinging plates against the walls as if they were frisbees and having batting practice with the various other items in the room. By the time she finished, shards of glass and broken pottery covered most of the floor. She opened the door and stepped out, whipping off her visor and hard hat.

Her gorgeous brown hair was sweaty and flattened against her skull. Her face was flushed, with rivulets of sweat rolling down her temples. She was breathing heavily and still dressed in that shapeless coverall that swamped her body. She had never looked more radiant. Her amber eyes, the exact shade of my favorite whiskey, were filled with excitement. Her lush lips were curved in a beaming smile, and she was almost vibrating with energy.

“That was exactly what I needed,” she squealed, then threw her arms around my neck. It took me a second to react, and I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her off her feet, spinning her around until she laughed and begged me to put her down.