The Dangerous Couple
I didn鈥檛 like her husband either. An overbearing one-upper, knew a better vodka than you were drinking, a better car than you were driving, knew more than you did about any subject that came up. Too much domination in his voice, wanted to be the only voice in the room, talked over you if you tried to get a word in, gobbled you up like food.
I didn鈥檛 like them separately, and I liked them even less together. When they were together she would eel herself against his body, her hands moving over his torso, her eyes searching her surroundings for other visceral stimulation. He held a martini in one hand while his other hand wandered over her from behind, and his eyes roamed hungrily around the room as if somehow connected to the tour of his hand. They were like two people masturbating publicly and in unison.
I wouldn鈥檛 mention either one of them, but something happened that I can鈥檛 put to rest. My wife and I were at a restaurant one night, a small restaurant, dark and romantic, secluded booths, lots of angles, known for its wine list and its veal, and we saw him there with another woman. I could see them clearly and my wife could too if she looked back, though there were tables and booths between our booth and theirs. He would have had to turn and look over his shoulder to see us. The woman had a view of us but did not know us, and I could watch ever