Date night.
My wife was wearing heels. She ate shit on the ice as I was pulling the car around.
The women pointed and giggled, the men rushed to her side. I pulled up in front of the restaurant and put it in park.
“I’m fine,” she said. “That’s my husband. Right there. He’s my husband.”
She pointed at me, the douche bag behind the steering wheel with used car salesman’s goatee.
More women giggled, some even more so.
She was laughing, I was laughing, but everybody else was too situationally embarrassed and/or preoccupied with the sexy, icy mess in front of them to see my face or hers.
And we’re still laughing. Hard. And they’re still likely embarrassed for a complete stranger.
