Feeling theatrical, Bob pulled the ratty old overcoat off its hanger. Smiling at his silly impulse, he twirled it over his head and wedged his arms into the sleeves. He expected the shoulders to be narrow as he pulled his arms to his sides, but the coat slipped down very comfortably. The smell wasn’t that bad, but it could use a dry cleaning, he thought. The waist was in fact a bit tight, but the sleeves were close enough, and the shoulders felt good. He had planned to lose some weight anyway, so he sucked in his gut and buttoned it halfway. At the end of his sleeve, he felt the tickle of the cardboard price tag against his thumb. Catching the dangling tag, he glanced at the faded yellow sticker and nodded at the odd price of $18.88.
He decided that the cape part was stylish and gave him an international look He slid his hands down the sides of the coat looking for pockets, missed, tried again, missed again, then feeling around finally realized that there were no pockets on the outside. Bob was a bit deflated. No pockets… a deal breaker. He smiled disappointedly and prepared to return the overcoat to menswear limbo.
“What on earth are you wearing?” the voice was a mixture of amusement and reproach.
God, NOW she appears.
Holding out his arms, he turned toward his wife without looking, “You like it? I think it’s kind of neat.”
Sighing gently and shaking her head, Brenda raised her chin as she spoke, “I’m sure it is. I’m done. Sorry I took so long. Come on, put that back on the rack and we’re out of here, I promise.”
A command wrapped in an apology. Nice.
His breath shortened, and his lips tightened slightly. Bob did not look at his wife. “Winter’s coming. I could use a new coat.”
Her mind already jumping to the next location, Brenda offered, “Okay, let’s go to the coat outlet and find you something. I’m glad you mentioned it; I can look for a raincoat for David while we’re there. He’s outgrown the one from last year.”
Bob pulled a hatchet out of his pocket and slammed it into his wife’s skull. This time it only took one chop to shut her up.
Without a word, Bob picked up his old coat and the hanger and walked sideways down the aisle toward his wife.
“Honey, what are you…?” Brenda sighed in minor annoyance as her husband brushed past her and up to the checkout counter. He held out the price tag at the end of his sleeve for the clerk. He turned to his wife and noted the silver soup ladle and the commemorative RC Cola bottle in her hands with the yellow tags still on them. “You said you were done…?”
Plus the 6% sales tax, his black wool overcoat cape came to $20.01. The clerk called it $20 even.
Despite her misgivings about the ratty-looking old overcoat, Brenda had dutifully taken it in to be dry cleaned that week. She didn’t want the musty odor lingering in the closet, so she tossed it in with Bob’s work shirts and her dress suits. She resolved to get it cleaned as often as possible under the guise of showing concern for this thing that obviously meant so much to Bob. Her real hope was that it would fall apart under the cleanings.
It was Sunday evening, and they had just gotten home from visiting relatives. It had been a good day, and when Brenda had indicated that she did not feel like cooking, Bob suggested Mexican. Bob sat in the booth across from his wife and eight-year-old son. His teenage daughter sat next to him pretending that her parents and brother were strangers who had the audacity to sit at her table without asking. Autumn weather had come early that year, with lots of chilly wind.
To Brenda’s surprise, the old overcoat cape had not really drawn that much attention and it really didn’t look any worse than the denim jacket with the pharmaceutical company logo that her husband wore all too often. Bob had long ago learned not to ask his daughter to put his jackets on the inside of the booth next to her or, for that matter, to make any effort on his behalf. So he sat there wearing it, leaning over his plate when crunching salsa and chips. Bob eschewed his usual enchilada and beans and ordered the lowcarb fajitas. The good mood of the day was still in full swing as Bob and Brenda laughed along with their children.
A dozen girls walked in the restaurant, chattering. Facing the door, Bob saw them as they came in, and he tried very hard to look without being obvious. From the distance, they all seemed to be varieties of beautiful. His eyes lingered a few extra seconds at the moving jumble of firm young body parts that strained against T-shirts inside half-opened jackets and hips that curved into tight buttocks. With the practiced restraint of the middle-aged voyeur, he managed to suppress the words, “Oh, good God…” even though his lips still went through the motions.
Dear God, just tell me they aren’t high-schoolers.
There was the brief thought that looking at such young girls was revolting, or at least illegal, if they were underage. But the firm, full bodies still waved unabashedly at him from the edge of his vision. Besides, if they were in college, it was probably only revolting, not illegal. Yes, had to be college. Bob decided that a group of high school girls would not be out at a restaurant on a Sunday evening; they were probably from the private college down the street.
Bob noticed a couple of waiters quickly pulling tables together, and the dozen or so little packets of young female body parts were being led to them. The tables were off to his right, and behind Brenda’s field of vision, so Bob took a moment to give the female buffet a closer look. They were all attractive in that young way, and one or two made a definite impression. None of the girls actually giggled, and Bob recognized the casual, yet restrained, social dynamic of the college sorority in action.
He was disappointed to see that a few of the girls were wearing those blue jeans that squeeze a woman’s hips too low so that her bottom looks more narrow and boyish. But those same jeans that were so annoying from the back rode low in the front, providing a sample glimpse of tender, tanned stomach flesh. Jackets were being stripped off and hung on the backs of chairs. Bob spent a few too many seconds watching that particular spectacle, unable to look away. Round breasts shifted and heaved as arms and shoulders wriggled out of jackets. A couple of the T-shirts were tight enough that letters and logos across the front were hidden underneath curves that were far too perfect to be real, Bob thought.
He stifled a small groan by vigorously crunching into a chip he had been absently holding. Back to reality for the briefest of moments, he stole a glance toward Brenda and was relieved to see that she was fully occupied with trying to get a civil response from their daughter to some question or comment.
Careless. Don’t stare directly at it, moron.
Bob’s dinner arrived in a steaming cloud of sizzling red meat, onions, and peppers. Young David was impressed with his father’s loud meal, and for a few minutes Bob played with his food and his laughing son. When he finally glanced back toward the table of sorority girls, they had settled into their seats, and his view was mostly limited to the two girls on the end. One was wearing a blue blouse that hinted at money in her family. The blouse did not hug her body, so Bob had to settle for what entertainment he could derive from her face and hair. She was dark blond, with a sexy face that needed the help that her makeup gave it. Sure, she was pretty, but her eyes were a little too small for her face, and her nose was a little crooked. She tried to make her eyes look bigger by wearing too much eyeliner.