by Tracey Quinn
I tried not to laugh too much. It must have been bad.
“So do you really remember every word your dad told you about the facts of life?” I asked.
“Sure do. He told me since I knew how to read I could find out about it by myself if I didn't already know. Then we played poker for a half hour, he let me win a buck and a quarter, and that was it.”
“You know, now that you mention it, Charlene came into my office the other day and gave me a women's magazine,” I said. “She had marked a page that had a list of ten things a woman could do to spice up her relationship with her significant other.”
“Now that's very interesting,” Mark said. “I don't suppose you mind sharing them with your significant other?”
“Why not? The first one said you should gather wildflowers, tie them up with a strand of raffia and leave them on your loved-one's door step.”
He sighed. “Oh my, one of those magazines. What is raffia anyhow?”
“No idea. I asked Tammy and she told me it's a stringy fiber from some kind of leaves and it's sort of an artsy thing that people use to tie gifts. I feel so incompetent sometimes because other women always seem to know that kind of stuff and I don't.”
“I can see why you'd feel like that,” Mark said. “After all, flying a helicopter in a war zone for more than a decade to rescue wounded soldiers doesn't make you nearly as competent as someone who knows how to tie up a bunch of wildflowers with a weed. Were there any other spicy suggestions?”
“Let's see, there was one that told how to get your significant other into a more sensual mood.”
“Okay, now we're getting somewhere. What did it say?”
“It said that you're supposed to take their cell phone, turn it off, hide it and replace it with a large chocolate bar, the kind that you can break off into little squares, and then you can feed the chocolate bar to each other, square by square.”
“Why would you have to hide my cell phone?”
“So you can relax and not have to answer it,” I replied. “We're supposed to just concentrate on each other.”
“But if I don't answer my phone when there's a fire, I'll lose my job. Couldn't we just do the candy thing?”
“I guess so, but there's a problem with that, too.”
“Which is?”
“You like dark chocolate and I like milk chocolate.”
“So what's the problem? We could just buy two different candy bars.”
“I considered that, but what if we get distracted and feed each other a piece of chocolate from the wrong candy bar?”
“What difference would that make? It's all edible.”
“I know, but I've given it some thought and I'd be miffed that I had to choke down the dark chocolate and I'd be trying to fight the feeling that you didn't care enough to give me the right chocolate bar, and at the same time you would be disappointed that I gave you the milk chocolate instead of the dark chocolate that you preferred and you'd have to try to hide your resentment. You can see the problem.”
Mark didn't say anything for a moment. Then as he turned into the driveway, he asked, “Do you have any of that chocolate cream pie left?”
“Sure,” I replied.
“Problem solved,” he said.
