Getting On

The first time I met Deb I watched her line up shots while singing a country song about tequila and getting naked. She was out with her son's girlfriend, and it was karaoke night at The Lodge. Picture wood paneling. Everywhere. Even the bathrooms.

She sat next to me at the table.

"OK, tell me the truth. Is this shirt is too revealing?"

I looked. What else could I do? Soft and slightly creped, her breasts pushed out of the edges of a black bra. Self tanner had accumulated like a streak of mud in the crease of cleavage.

"It's not too much- you look great."

I handed her a napkin and whispered something about bronzer. She just laughed and wiped openly at her chest, holding up the stained white square when she was done.

"You know my husband, right?" Deb leaned into me for emphasis, close enough to verify that she had in fact been shooting vodka, not tequila. The cleavage in question pressed against my arm. "He left. He went to his 30 year highschool reunion in Ohio."

I did not know her husband, I only vaguely knew her son's girlfriend who had since relocated to a seat at the bar. What was this? Scenes from The Graduate were playing in my head. And ohmygod- why did I comment on her boobs?

Then Deb's voice caught, half sob half gasp. She reached for my hand.

"He found her on the internet, on our computer. The one in the living room. Right in the middle of my living room."

I sat in The Lodge, under racks of antlers and animal heads, holding hands with a complete stranger. But I was too relieved that she wasn't a lesbian cougar to feel appropriately awkward.

"They were sweethearts as kids, she was his first love- but he went away to college and she married somebody in the Navy. They lost touch. For 30 years. Through the reunion he found her on the internet. I should've known when he said he didn't want me to go with him, I mean, I look good. You'd think he'd want to show me off! Right? I wasn't even suspicious. Why wasn't I suspicious? Then he called and said he's not coming home. He said he never loved me, not like he loves Diane." She choked on the name. Tears lined up behind her mascara, but didn't fall.

She visibly pulled herself together and shook her hair back.

"I know what you're thinking."

I was thinking that she must feel worthless and disposable. I was thinking about being unexpectedly single after 20 years of marriage- imagining dating instead of family dinners, holidays alone.

"I know what you're thinking," she repeated, "But he's not coming back."

Deb stood up before adjusting her bra and said,

"Momma always told me- put on lipstick, suck in your stomach, and get on with things."

Pulling a compact out of her purse, she did just that. And since "getting on with things" meant another round of shots, I joined her at the bar.