I Tried To Ply Him With Wine

So I plied my husband with wine last night with the express intent of garnering any information I could with regard to the before mentioned trip on which we are to depart next week. (Did you know I just used “with” three times in this sentence? Best to pull out my Thesaurus next time I come to write.) 

You see, he has this cute little thing he does when he’s hiding something or telling a white lie. It is a smirk along with the slightest flaring of his nostrils. It is a never fail, telltale sign. (Blogger’s note: This dude does NOT lie (or well)!). Dang it, if he didn’t do it once, which means he’s either been practicing how not to do it, or I didn’t hit any nails. 

My first try, after the first glass of wine, made mention of Zika; the flu-like virus transmitted through mosquito bites and sex. I said I should probably load up on bug spray just in case. Nothing.

After the second glass of wine, I pursued the clothing angle. I told him I didn’t have any swimwear at home, and he’d have to swim alone if there were beaches or pools involved. He didn't seem concerned. Just to cover my bases, I threw in that I didn’t have any ski clothing laying around either. They're all in our storage unit. Nothing!

After the third glass of wine…Listen, a girl’s got to try everything! NOTHING!

I actually thought I could snag him someway, somehow. He’s tight as a drum! Even my best friend, who didn’t behave as if she’s on “Team Gina” when she declared he should withhold all information until within a 24-hour window, won't budge. Either!

I don't know if I can handle it. I have five days until I know something, I think. I don't know if I can handle it. Maybe I’ll come up with some tricks to pull out tonight. Because I don’t know if I can handle it. 

In truth, I want to know, and I don't want to know.

The "If I Were..." Game

After a lovely and romantic Valentine’s Day dinner, we still had some time before catching the train back home from Union Station. Slightly giddy from wine, we ducked into a hip restaurant, squeezed in between a group of men to grab two seats at the bar and ordered.

“What’s the deal with the nametags on all those guys?” My husband asked nodding his head towards the group.

“Well there’s only one way to find out.” I answered.

I leaned around him.

“Happy Valentine’s Day. Why are you wearing nametags?’

“We’re here for an event.” Said one man rather abruptly quickly leaving the bar. Drinks in hand, the rest of the group followed.

"Did I offend him somehow?"

"I don't think so?"

Glancing around, we saw several people with their name and a number pasted to their chests. I’m much too curious sometimes for my own good. I had to know so I waved over the bartender.

“What’s with all with nametags?”

“They’re holding a speed dating event tonight in the bar. Every four minutes they rotate partners for the next hour.”

“Oh! So that’s why that guy was wonky. He was nervous. This should be interesting to watch!”

And every four minutes when the whistle blew, our heads would snap around to see the new rotation. Everyone seemed engaged in lively conversation. Smiling. They looked pretty good at it actually. The mismatches were a riot.

As spectators, we decided to play a few rounds of speed dating ourselves making up all kinds of wacky questions and answers.

“If you actually said that, I would never give you my number!”

“Well you’re not as funny as you think you are!”

We weren’t serious at all. It was really fun.

On the way home, we caught the milk run; a train that stops at every station. We didn’t care at all. We decided to play a game we hadn’t in a long time called “If I were hit by a meteor, would you…”

Date? Who? What? Where? When? How? Anyone I know? Would you marry again? How would your life be different without me (assuming the other was gone solely due to natural disaster always using a meteor)? Etc., etc., etc.

The next morning, the phone rang oddly early. My husband doesn’t often call before 7:00 unless it's something important.

“Have you been on the internet yet?”

“No. Why?”

“Go look. You’ll know what I’m talking about.”

What began as a fun and silly game one evening turned sad the following morning. Our game can’t be called “If I were hit by a meteor...” anymore.

Our world is one crazy, crazy place.

Trifextra: A Very Married Conversation

“My heart’s a shriveled raison

Thinking of you every second.”

“Bad” TV queued.

“I bet.”

“I miss you more than life.”

Ice cream spoon dangling.

“Yeah, right.”

Bon bons? Check.

“Be good.”

“You, too.”

***********************

This weekend's challenge at Trifecta is to include some hyperbole in 33 words.