Page 41 of Enemies to Lobsters
There’s no way this rumor is true, right? I feel idiotic for entertaining the thought, but Tom Selleck’s namedoesenter the conversation a lot around Diana given the current decade. And she seems to blush every time.
Is my wife in love with Tom Selleck? Does she have a thing for mustaches?
I rip a bite off of my fritter, frowning while I chew. Then I shake my head at myself. I’m being a moron. So what if Diana’s in love with the guy? She’s married to me. I’m the one who got to watch her high five Boone last night. I’m the one who got to walk her up to her room. I chickened out before I could kiss her, though.
We were on the top steps. There was a break in the conversation. She said good night. I was going in. Then she yawned. I’m not the smartest man, but it was a pretty heavy-handed hint. It killed me to walk downstairs to the couch. If ithad been up to me, I would’ve kept Diana awake half the night. Her soft smile as she closed her bedroom door will live rent-free in my head until the day I die, though. I should’ve kissed her.
“Huh. Maybe I oughta grow a mustache,” the guy with the eggs in his mouth says, way too loudly. There’s omelet everywhere after that, guaranteed. “Maybe she’d let me move into her lighthouse if she’s that easy.”
“Gross, Matt,” the nasally one whines.
Okay, that’s it.
I push through the swinging blue doors, fritter in hand, ready to smack the rest of the omelet out of the dude’s mouth. When I drop into the seat across from him, the table of ladies across from us is suddenly very interested in their plates.
“I’m going to clear some things up, since Diana and I seem to be the topic of the day,” I announce. A few heads swivel our direction.
Omelet guy turns out to be Matt Ouellette, who works on a fishing boat and smells like it. He drops his fork, folding his arms across his chest. He doesn’t look at all ashamed of getting caught insinuating things about Diana. His face is daring me to step up to him.
“The woman you’re talking about ismy wife.” Placing my fritter on a napkin like I have all the time in the world, I grab the dusty bottle of hot sauce from behind the ketchup. The label reads “Firearreah” in menacing block letters, with flames and a laughing Satan underneath. Marlow’s brother puts those out because he’s a little butthead. No one has ever tried this hot sauce without experiencing severe gastrointestinal consequences.
Matt’s eyes tighten when I unscrew the lid.
“You’re right, Diana was all over me last night.” I pour a gentle line of hot sauce across the remainder of Matt’s scrambled eggs, looking him dead in the eye. “But guess what,Matt? I wasall over her, too.” It’s really coming out now and evenmyeyes widen at the amount of hot sauce. I’m not trying to kill anyone today. But I’m committed. I maintain eye contact with Matt as I continue drizzling. “Because I’m her husband. We're married. The only man allowed near Diana’s lighthouse is me. Not Tom Selleck. Not you. Not even the Amazon guy goes over there. Got it?” I replace the cap, setting the bottle on the table with a comforting clink. Get that stuff away from me. I tried it once, and I was singing “Ring of Fire” by Johnny Cash for days. I frown at the memory.
I gesture at Satan’s eggs with my eyes, then at Matt. I’m silently daring him to go for it.Man up, big guy.
The theme fromThe Good, the Bad and the Uglyis playing from somewhere behind us like it’s high noon at the O.K. Corral or something. A tumbleweed rolls by.
Matt picks up his fork without dropping eye contact.
Holy crap, I didn’t think he’d actually do it. Someone should stop him.
He scoops up a forkful of the now-reddish eggs, pushing it into his mouth defiantly. He’s a bigger idiot than I thought.
He chews once. Coughs. Gasps for air. The women he was gossiping with are snickering. Someone presses “stop” on the O.K. Corral music. Matt coughs and gasps again, and his eyes go wide. His mouth is a huge “O” shape, but nothing is going in or out, not even a wheeze.
“Are you choking?” I ask.
He grabs at his throat. That’s the universal sign, right?
Oh, brother. I’m going to have to give him the Heimlich, aren’t I? I stand slowly. Human beings can go a few minutes without oxygen. He’s fine. “Get up.”
Matt listens quickly, making an unsettling gagging sound. I wrap my arms around his portly torso, shoving my joined fists upward toward his stomach.
Once.
Twice.
Oof, this guy smells like mackerel. On the third pump a reddish-yellow chunk pops out of his esophagus, landing on the table with a tiny plop. A few people clap. Matt coughs.
Marlow slides a glass of milk onto the table, and Matt gulps it down. She winks at me. “Stop trying to kill paying customers, Ike.”
∞∞∞
“Diana?” I call up the stairs a little while later. “You up? I brought you a whoopie pie. Marlow says hello.”
Nothing. Just the smell of salt air and musty, old house. The fresh, white paint Diana chose for the walls looks good, though. It’s brighter in here, even on a cloudy morning. I whistle while I wait for her answer.
