“Is she going to make those awesome cookies?” “Of course she is. You know she always bakes when we have people over.” “Well if your woman is baking, I’ll be there with bells on!” It was always that extra line that got to me. I’d noticed the last few times I invited Tom over that instead of an immediate response, it was always a negotiation that was somehow quickly by resolved by my wife’s company. Is she making cookies? Is she going to buy a round of drinks? Can she be on my team for Wii Bowling? and the one that grated me the most… “Dude, your wife is like my favourite person in the world.” I always wanted to respond with “Dude, YOUR wife should be your favourite person in the world, not MY wife,” but the words never came out. I mean, he’s my best friend right? For a long time too. We go way back. Years now. Heck, he was the best man at my wedding. Come to think of it, it was my wife … well, my girlfriend at the time … that introduced us. When we were still just “seeing” each other, I bumped into them at the mall and we all had an awesome day. Just once though, I’d love to be able to hang out with the guy and not have my wife’s presence be the key factor in that happening. Come to think of it, I don’t know that I’ve ever hung out with Tom for an extended period of time when my wife wasn’t around. Tom never came out to poker nights, bowling apparently bothered his back, and despite him being my best man, he was MIA for my bachelor party. Nobody knew where he was that night, and rather than an explanation the next day, just a promise … “Don’t worry dude, I’ll TOTALLY get you back for last night.” What the hell did he mean by that anyways? I swallowed my jealous feelings with the last sip of Guinness in my glass. I had developed a taste for stout in high school when everyone else thought it just tasted foul. Fifteen years later and I can’t seem to go a day without it. Standing up proved a little more challenging than expected. The daily routine of stopping for a pint had developed a tumor of sorts on Thursdays, one that measured several pints in diameter and generally resulted in a lot of pain on Friday morning. A glance around after I had gained my post-pint stability showed there to be no Tom. A survey of bar staff showed that I was no longer to be served, and that the guy in the plaid flannel shirt and acid wash jeans had left some time earlier after grabbing my car keys while I was wallowing in self pity and mumbling incoherently. Good thing he grabbed my keys though, I was certainly in no condition to drive. And it didn’t involve my wife’s cookies. Consulting the GPS on my phone, I discovered West with Magellan-like accuracy and set off on the sixteen block mystery trek towards home. I’m pretty sure my wife was going to be less than impressed at my ability to consume pints of Ireland’s finest stout, but there would be no doubting the pride she would be overwhelmed with when i recounted my adventure through mounds of snow through velociraptor filled streets to get home to her, where she was no doubt waiting with a fresh baked pie. Okay, so the quantity of carnivorous dinosaurs was negligible, but after a block or so I noticed something following me. Two hundred million years of evolution and plate tectonics reminded me that the probability of dinosaurs was quite low. My powers of deduction, now enhanced by Guinness and pretzels, drew me to conclude that the subtle footsteps I was hearing were likely coming from a human-like creature, most likely wearing shoes. I spun around with the grace and stealth of a ninja with a drinking problem and saw only shadows and an old Buick parked in the wrong direction. People were always parking their Buicks in the wrong direction. On I walked. Or Stumbled. I didn’t remember having so many pints that I should feel quite this inebriated, but hey, what can you do. My Spidey-Senses were still tingling though. The distinct feeling of being followed was accompanied by the sound of footsteps. Having just recently been disappointed by both my skills as a ninja and a dinosaur tracker, I decided that walking faster would be preferable. A quicker pace and a message in my mind saying “don’t look back. People in the movies don’t get killed until they look back …” didn’t drown out the dull thud of the non-reptilian feet approaching rapidly. So I stopped. Dead Silence. Take THAT horror movies! I’ve conquered you! Don’t look back, stop in your tracks. Recipe for success. THUD. My head hurts. “She was mine first …” Apparently, I dream about Unicorns.
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