'Twas the day after Christmas and we were
enjoying late cocktails with our ex-Noo-Yawk
friends at Cafe Havana, where well-preserved
men with $3000 watches and women with
more plastic parts than Barbie preen and swill
expensive drinks. It's Fab-u-lous, darrrrlink.
Andrea and I sit at the bar while our boys
stand behind us swaying with the press of
the crowd. My husband licks a twenty and
sticks it on my forehead. The bartender blinks
at me and we are served: one bourbon, one
champagne cocktail, and two Mojitos (Mojito:
the house special: fresh mint and sugar pounded
with a pestle, then mixed with a splash of water
and a generous pour of rum) I'm enjoying my
champagne cocktail and chatting with Andrea
so I barely notice the four peroxide blondes
in nearly-identical little black dresses who move
in, pack-like, behind our spouses. (There's more
faux-blonde hair and little-black-gauzy nothings
in this joint than ticks on a hound dog.) Out of
the corner of my eye I see my husband's eyes
flare open as he turns quickly to the four faux-
blondes. I figure he's just been jabbed with one
of their nearly-identical pointy patent leather
purses. Ouch. But what really happened is that
one of those chickies (Courtney or Ashley or
Tiffani with an "i" I'm sure) just
grabbed his ass
And I mean grabbed. Not a pinch or a tweak
or an appreciative pat: I'm talking a full five-
fingered whole-hand grab. But I didn't know
this at the time. My spouse turns back to us,
runs a hand quickly over his shiny bald head,
and takes a healthy sip of his Mojito. Yummy.
I smile at him. He smiles at me. The four of us
continue talking. I watch the bartender make
more Mojitos. Andrea and her husband split a
cigar. While I'm sipping my champagne cocktail
to the halfway point I see my husband lift about
six inches off the floor and bellow, --Oh My!--
Yes, one of the four faux-blondes has
grabbed his ass
Again. Latched her five manicured fingers
onto one of his sweet cheeks and squeezed.
He whips around and one of the chickies (Sunny
or Bunny or Suzi with an "i" I'm sure) giggles
through Clinique lips, --My friend Patti wants
to meet you!-- So he smiles weakly and dabs
his gleaming bald pate with a cocktail napkin,
conspicuously flashing his silver wedding band,
--Hullo Patti-- and the four snort and wiggle
and heave their black spaghetti-strapped
shoulders up and down, up and down. He
turns back to us, still patting his head and
mumbling back to Patti and Suzi and Tiffani
and Luci (or whatever the fab four call themselves)
--You're making me sweat!-- And I've missed
this whole exchange because I've been marveling
over my cocktail, watching the perfect tiny
silver bubbles make their speedy way to the
lip of my smooth amber drink. Yes, distracted
by the luscious pert carbonation of my beverage,
I've missed the gratuitous assault on my spouse.
Later, I wonder why it is that his behind was
the one selected for harvest, and he shrugs,
saying, --It's the bald thing: they always want
to meet the bald guy-- I grin and decide that
I may have to switch from champagne cocktails
to two-fingers of slick brown bourbon--something
that won't divert my attention from guarding my
husband's fascinating bald pate and round sassy ass.
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