Eating Out by Doc

                                        By Doc Nolan
                                       
“So, tell me about it”, she said, leaning over the table, obviously intent on listening to me.  We were in one of those fake French restaurants with a lit candle and a single rose between us.  Linen table cloth.  Expensive food.
 
“There’s not much to say,” I replied.  “You simply call the shots.  Make the decisions.  I do the chores and pay the bills.  You keep me company and I protect you.”

“I don’t need any protection,” she answered, a bit huffily.  I realized she’d misunderstood. Par.  “Bad choice of words on my part,” I said.  “I apologize.  I meant that I’ll be your umbrella and your shield and your lookout.  That’s all.”  She looked mollified.

“I might use you for that.  I might not.”

“Your call,” I answered.

There was a long pause.  We were still waiting for the entrée.  She spoke first.

“You make a good pitch.”

“I simply make observations and make offers”.  She nodded at that.

“Yes”, she said.  “You always seem to be giving me options.  Letting me choose.  Offering me a…. “. She paused, pointing at the menu, still on the table, shoved to one side.  I smiled.  She didn't smile; neither did she frown.  She simply intensified her stare.

I joked.  “I guess you’ll have to pick an entrée from the menu.”  She nodded.

“Or decide I don’t like anything and go to another restaurant,” she said.  This time she was smiling.  This time I wasn't.

I said, “I think you are playing tennis with me.”

“Yes, I am.  And I never play tennis against a player that I can’t beat.”  Her grin widened.   I simply nodded.

Another long pause.  Still no entrée.  Still no waiter.  The nearby tables were full.  Everyone was whispering.  Not an American restaurant with concrete floors and loud piped in music.  Silent except for the clink of cutlery on china and the tinkle of wine glasses accidentally grazing plates.  In the distance the muffled sounds of the kitchen.  Very European.

“When can I expect your decision, Marie?”  She looked at her wine glass.

“I’ll consider your offer this weekend and get back to you next Monday,” she replied.  “You know all my conditions.”  I nodded.

She was the boss.  She would decide if on Monday.  Then she would decide when.  Then she would decide how.  The only things answered were who (me) and where (the house).  It seemed very right.  “I will make your life comfortable, you know” I said.

“Yes, you will.  And you won’t be the one making any rules for me.  I will make the rules.”  I again nodded.  “Are you sure,” she added, turning her head to one side quizzically “that you’re ready to be my submissive outside the bedroom as well as in it?”  I was ready for this question.

“I have given it a lot of thought and we wouldn't be here if I had misgivings, Marie.  I’m ready.  In fact, I’m past ready.  I need someone in the house.  You will be made to feel a queen.”

She smiled.  “You know what will happen if I’m not satisfied, right?”  I nodded.

“Kicked to the curb?”

“Well, I would have phrased it a bit more nicely, but yes – if I’m not happy, I will indeed kick you to the curb.”  She smiled.  I looked down at my wine glass.

The waiter arrived with the entrées.  I wondered how much the bill would come to.  I actually didn't care.  I was simply curious.  “Nice place,” I mumbled.

She simply raised her fork and began eating.