Not the Marrying Kind

“I’m starving,” Darren tells me on our walk up through Soho.

“Okay. But I don’t want to eat. Or drink.”

“You want to walk around. But you don’t want to eat. Or drink.” He repeats this slowly and thoughtfully then frowns.


Now he is scowling hard. “You’re an idiot.”

“Fine. I’ll have one cocktail. Outside. We have to sit outside. It’s too nice not to. But I need to sit under an umbrella, or I’ll burn. And just one drink. Oh, and nothing to eat.”

“Ugh, you’re a pest!”

“No I’m not! You can pick the place, it just has to be outside.” I smile. I believe this is fair. After all, I try to be reasonable.

“Great. Let’s go to the Cowgirl and have beers or a margarita or something.”

I stop walking and fold my arms. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to. We always go to the Cowgirl.”

“We went once.”


Darren groans and shakes his head. “You’re impossible. God help the poor guy who marries you, kid. He is going to be fucked.”

“Don’t be mean,” I chastise.

“It’s true!”

“Yes of course it’s true, but let’s just pretend it’s not or you’ll scare them all off.”

We burst out laughing. And, hm, we didn’t go to the Cowgirl.


2 responses to “Not the Marrying Kind

  1. Since I was around 16, I’ve thought it much more exciting to be the lover with pretty lingerie a la Unbearable Lightness of Being rather than the wife, except for the screwing married guys part… the way things are shaping up lately, it looks like that’s where I’m headed. Which is not necessarily a bad thing.

  2. Did you go to the Reverse Cowgirl?

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