One afternoon, Andrew and I found ourselves at the local B&N on a magazine hunt. We were on our way out and as we passed a tall kiosk filled with books, I grabbed him and proceeded to give him a big smooch. Bounding out from around the corner came a woman who began telling us her life story about recently becoming an empty nester and how her daughter would have given her the 5th degree about smooching in public. Then she outed herself and her dirty laundry with a long winded missive about how her college daughter found mom’s newly purchased g-string to rekindle her passion with her husband, aka ‘dad.’
Thanks for that unnecessary vision, she-hound.
Naturally, my jaw dropped as she proceeded to hold us hostage with further sordid details about her married sex life.
Andrew, as nice as he is, made his usual gentle condescending remarks that only fueled her desire to explain everything to us. I grabbed his hand and said, “We’ve got to go!” But he insisted on making comments that only lead to my abandoning the situation –and Andrew– by running desperately back to the magazine section and hiding. I found myself cracking up at the audacity of the woman’s demand that we remain her audience for her sordid life story. As I held myself up against the rack, giggling uncontrollably, Andrew finally departs her grasp to rendezvous with me.
Straight out of a sitcom, we shot the hell out of the bookstore if only to free ourselves from the she-hound. I’ll never stop smooching in public, but I will be more aware of the lurking she-hounds in dark public corners.