Ann’s Bio:

A stay-at-home humorist, Ann began writing to distract her ovaries from insisting on a third child. Ann has made no progress at earning continuing education credits to retain her social work license, but has had her writing featured on Humorpress.com, MaternalSpark.com, and FunnyNotSlutty.com. Ann looks forward to the launch of UnhingedMagazine.com, featuring her essay "The Saddies." Ann blogs regularly at annsrants.com, but never when she is supposedly watching her preschool-age boys.

Date Night

By Ann Imig

 

“I know you love me, I asked if you like me.”

“Tofu Pad Thai” announced the waitress, startling Jon mid-thought.

Hannah averted her eyes.

“That’s me,” he indicated.

Hannah leaned back as the waitress placed a steaming bowl of Tom Kha before her. She turned the corners of her mouth up in acknowledgment. She remembered Jon's comment a week ago, upon entering the party: Wish I'd had time to shower. Come to think of it, wish I wasn't wearing the same clothes from last night. And the day before that, he'd chuckled.

Hannah inhaled deeply. She rolled her shoulders back, then down. “I like you.” She hesitated.

She felt older. Recently her butt began sliding down her thighs. The once sensible-yet-sufficiently-sexy boy briefs now created four cheeks. When she bothered with a bra, her breasts often slipped out the bottom. Genetics and chasing two preschoolers left Hannah surprisingly slim, yet subtly things shifted. She recently noticed crow's feet on her dear friend of twenty years, and had visions of growths inside bodies—in tissue and on organs—malignancies that often reveal themselves in middle-age.

“We'll never make it to the movie.” Hannah sighed. They needed to laugh, together, at something besides preschooler antics.

“We need wipes. And coffee.” Shrugged Jon. Should we just go to the store?"

“And snore strips,” added Hannah. “You kept me up last night.”

Hannah and Jon swallowed their food. They people-watched. She decided against ordering another beer, still feeling tired from her daily four-o’clock (sometimes earlier) glass of wine (or two). Jon drank water.

“Last night the Mad Men DVD made a horrific noise, and when I ejected it I found an old snore strip adhered to it. Can you please just throw those in the trash?” Her tone turned pointed.

Jon snorted. “I throw them in the trash, Hannah, Jesus.” Hannah relented with a half-smile, admitting the absurdity of their exchange.

“We can't go grocery shopping when we have a sitter. That’s too depressing.” She sighed. “Besides, I need a new bra.”

“Mall?” suggested Jon.

“The Mall...” Hannah pined for long ago nights watching Jon's band at The Double Door, The Empty Bottle, and The Metro. The memory of his hunched drumming posture softened her tight jaw.

The next twelve-dollar-per-babysitting-hour found Hannah locating three bras in the exact same cup-size she wore in the sixth grade. Of course, now she demanded more from a bra. She needed structure and lining. To replace the loss of her own structure and lining.

She bought her bras and meandered over to fine jewelry. Hannah anticipated their tenth wedding anniversary. She wanted to add something sparkly to her modest legally-bound commemorative jewelry collection. She slipped a tiny sapphire and diamond eternity band over her slim finger. It suited her. She doubted the quality in direct proportion to the saleswoman's hard pitch, and returned it to the counter.

Wandering through cosmetics, Hannah resisted looking in the scathingly bright mirrors. As she chastised herself for avoiding laser hair removal, she noticed she was picking at herself. Again. In public, no less. She put her hands by her sides and approached a kind looking saleslady.

“What acne?” queried the saleslady. Noting Hannah's dark circles and red-rimmed eyelids, she didn't push any products.

Jon bought pens at the bookstore. He paced. He sat on an empty riser in the atrium, where a science show had taken place hours earlier. He rested his head in his hands. He took deep breaths. His knee bounced restlessly. Leaving the kids made him anxious, distracting him during these invaluable moments of alone time.

“Do you have cash for the sitter?” Hannah looked out the car window, shivering. She turned up her seat-heater. Minutes passed before they realized they were both singing along with The Wiggles: Big Red Car. Again. Jon harmonized and attempted sophisticated vocal gymnastics. Hannah grinned. She considered sex on a Saturday, outside of their Thursday/Sunday regimen. They needed it. They'd keep their socks on. She'd try not to ruin the mood by mentioning their parents, or the neighbor's new hairdo. Something about intimacy often prompted her to share the banal anecdotes of her day.

Jon drummed the steering wheel, peppering his solo with hand motions. They called it “driver dancing.” Hannah giggled. She cracked her window for a quick breath of icy air, pausing to enjoy Jon's profile for a moment.

“What?” He smiled, feeling her attention.

She remembered to look into his eyes. Hannah liked what she saw.

***