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No, he reminded himself, not a date. A session. A session with a marriage counsellor. A solo session with a female marriage counsellor. An attractive, buxom marriage counsellor who made his heart race and tied his tongue like a pretzel. Stop it, he chided himself guiltily. It’s a session, nothing more, nothing less. Better concentrate on driving, he decided, as his truck groaned around a corner. The truck had been a concession to Abby’s unreasoning distrust of anything that couldn’t stand up by itself without support. Ten years ago, George had been mooning about motorcycles. Hogs. Softtails. Never mind that he’d never ridden a motorcycle before, but by God, he was born to be wild and he could take a course at the community college to teach him how. In the end, Abby had quietly approved of a truck, but one with a quad cab in case they ever decided to have kids. The truck would give George’s depleting testosterone room to float about in. Free range hormones. He’d made a great show of. But my wife declined again, and slid back up onto her stool. Right after that the bar phone rang and the bartender announced that our table was ready. Steve led my wife off with his arm around her waist while I settled the bar bill. They were waiting for the table to be setup with the third place setting when I got to the maitre d's station. Now Steve had his hand on my wife's ass, his thumb pulling the waistband down just enough to expose the thin red 'T' on the band of her G-string where it ran down her butt crack. "You must work out" he said as he squeezed a butt cheek. "Not nearly as often as I'd like" she replied. "I travel a lot." Steve tipped the Maitre d' "We'd like something private!" I didn't see what he tipped him but two minutes later we were shown to a booth in the far back corner next to a window looking out onto whatever main road is on the north side of the airport. We stood there a moment as they cleared away a fourth place setting, then Steve indicated that.
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