Eight thirty in the A.M.
A blonde dame, my wife Rebecca, was in the other room.
She was trouble but knew what she wanted –even if she didn’t know why. I was attracted to trouble, especially trouble named Rebecca. I didn’t know what I wanted—but at least I knew why (thanks to a good therapist who cost me some serious cabbage).
We each had a cup of Joe –mine with sugar and cream; hers with Splenda and skim milk.
Like I said, it was Sunday.
And Sundays can be boring.
So I tried to fancy it up with film noir dialogue. Dialogue that was edgy hut as plain and as cheap as a two day old vanilla scone from a coffee shop you’ve never heard of –and will never go back to (after eating the two day old vanilla scone).
I didn’t create this problem of facing long Sundays with no plans. But I was going to have to solve it.
It’s what I do.
I don’t know why it’s what I do. But I do know why I don’t know why. (See above about having a good therapist.)
It wasn’t the beginning of a beautiful friendship. It was the middle of a beautiful marriage. That line may not be as catchy as the one from Casablanca, but it’s more than Bogie and Ingrid Bergman ever had. And it’s in color, see?
Maybe the middle of beautiful marriages isn’t supposed to make you think of film noir—of dark alleyways, danger and surprise lurking, guns with fingers twitching and bad dialogue around ever corner. I guess they are more like a relaxing Sunday morning. But still with a cup of Joe. And preferably fresh scones, from the coffee shop you know always go to.