“Now you’re talking like an 80s metal chick,” I laugh. “No, where are we going?”
“You,” she starts, taking graceful steps in what must be at least three-inch spikes, “are going to take me to the amusement park.”
“The amusement park?” I ask. “I didn’t know we had any of those around here.”
“I’m sure we’ll find one,” she says.
“All right, but we’d better get going. Otherwise, it’s going to be closed.”
“That’s kind of the point,” she says.
“In that case,” I tell her, trying to bury my fear of breaking in anywhere, “we should probably give it a little bit longer.”
“Oh, we’re going to make a couple of stops on the way. I hope you don’t mind,” she says, “but I have to talk to a man about a semi-hostile takeover of a lesser known TV station in the Midwest.”
“Sounds exciting,” I mock. “Seriously, though, where are we going?”
“I’m completely serious. I was just going to have you take me to a park so you could go down on me on the swing set, but I’ve got to do a little work tonight.”
“You know,” I tell her, “I never know if you’re serious when you say stuff like that.”
“Yeah, me either,” she says. “You’ll get used to it.”
I’m sure I will.
Tonight, Grace had requested that I pick her up in my car, so I did. Melissa looked at me funny when I grabbed my car keys, but she didn’t say anything. My bet is that she’s going to try to use this as ammunition for our next argument, but right now, I couldn’t care less.
I haven’t left her. I haven’t kicked her out. I don’t even know if I’m actually done with the relationship, but as for right now, today, I do know that I’m not going to let her hold me hostage in my role as her lesser man.
Grace and I get to my car, and I hold her door as she gets in.
I walk around to the other side, and as I’m getting into my seat and buckling the belt, Grace says, “This is a nice car. How many old ladies with older money did you have to sweep off their feet to afford something like this?”
“I lost count a while ago.”
We’re on the road and everything’s going well. There’s good banter, even though I’m overthinking it to the point of absurdity.
“You’re going to have to tell me where I’m going,” I say.
“Just follow the sultry sounds of the computerized voice,” she says, pulling up the GPS on her phone.
“You don’t know where it is?”
“I do,” she says, “but this way we can carry on a conversation. You know, I should tell you that I generally prefer my hire-a-skanks to be more intelligent than what you’re bringing to the table.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter.
The sad thing is that I don’t know what else to say.
Ever since she booked my services back in the office, I’ve had this utopian idea of what tonight was going to be: we were going to throw off the fetters of convention — or at least, I was going to take a good crack at it — and I was going to rediscover my lost youth.
Okay, I’m only 27, but when you’ve lived a much more sedate version of your own life for any significant amount of time, any chance to get back to not caring so much about complete bullshit is the kind of thing you jerk off thinking about in the shower.
The computerized voice says, “Your destination is on the left,” and I’m actually starting to sweat.
I’m dropping the ball here.
Sure, Grace really isn’t saying anything either, but I think she’s just trying to see if I’m actually capable of unwinding.