Trojan Man
Sitting in my section is probably the best looking couple I've ever laid eyes on. The man is matinee idol handsome. The woman looks like she stepped out of the pages of Vogue.
They delight in each others presence. Perfect teeth flash, crystalline laughter echoes, eyes dance, happy superficial chatter, small touches are exchanged.
It's got to be a first or second date. There's none of the usual silences that belie years spent together.
The woman is really into this guy. She tosses her hair, runs a finger seductively along her wine glass stem, and somehow manages to wiggle without moving. It's fun to watch.
Matinee smiles eagerly. The evening is going his way. He's got champagne on ice at home. He'll invite her up for a nightcap. They'll talk and he’ll surprise her with a kiss. Clothes will drop to the floor, the tumble into bed, mad passion, lit cigarettes, more talk.
I'll even wager Matinee burned a mood music mix CD that’s playing on his Bang & Oulfsen.
Vogue Girl leans forward and plants a kiss on her date's cheek. Yes things are going his way. Matinee signals for the check. I'm happy. When a guy knows he's getting laid the tip size expands proportionally with the ego trip.
I print up the check. It’s a $100 bucks. I walk over and deliver it.
Matinee reaches into his breast pocket for his wallet. As he draws it out something falls and lands in the middle of the aisle with a click. I look down automatically.
On the floor is a solitary Trojan Condom.
I look up. Matinee is staring at it too. Uh oh.
. . .
It goes on from there.
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