The Historic Society meetings are always held in the library meeting room.
I walked in about ten minutes early as I always did, and took my accustomed seat at the long table, next to Samantha my best friend for decades.
She looked me up and down and whispered, "we're going to talk after this meeting."
Oliver, the Society president, gaveled the meeting to order before I could say anything.
The meeting droned, as it always did. The most important item was a house in the historic district that the owners were upgrading. The plans met District specifications and the vote to approve was unanimous.
Afterward, at the Starbucks at Barnes and Noble, my coffee (dark roast, black) in front of us, she leaned forward, stared openly at my cleavage on display, and said, "okay Sluterella, spill it."
I giggled and said, "am I that obvious?"
She smiled and said, "honey, you either got laid or you've decided to put it on the street."
I laughed, almost snorting my coffee.
"Can you promise not to spread this around?" I asked, touching her hand.
"In all the years we've been friends have I EVER told one of your secrets?" she asked and seemed legitimately offended.
"Okay," I said, taking a deep breath, "here's the story."
I talked nonstop, well, stopping to answer her occasional question, for almost an hour. The only breaks were to refill the coffee and then to pee.
I held nothing back. Hell, I was proud that they wanted me.
"So," I finished, "your good friend the chaste widow became the Merry Widow this weekend and, Sammee, it's not just getting laid. When they say 'I love you' I believe it. I know I mean it when I say it back."
She took a deep breath and said, "wow."
I giggled and replied, "yeah, wow."
"Okay," she said, "I do have one question."
"One?" I asked, doing the one-eyebrow-raised thing I am genetically enabled to do.
She giggled and actually blushed.
"Well?" I asked.
She met my eyes under her eyebrows and took her own deep breath.
"Do you think your," and she giggled, "your husbands would be interested in a fat other woman?"
"SAMMEE!" I said.
She blushed.
"Jean," she said, "it's been years since Fred touched me and, well, you obviously know a woman has needs."
"Are you serious?" I asked, my mind trying to grasp the notion of my best friend having trouble in her marriage and me not knowing it.
Her blush was bright red when she said, "never mind, it was a stupid idea. It's just, as you were describing it, well, didn't you notice me squirming?"
"You ARE serious, aren't you?" I said.
Her eyes were on her hands, flat on the table, when she said softly, a whisper really, "yes."
I covered her hands with mine.
"Sammee," I said, "look at me."
Her eyes came up and I could see tears welling.
I released her hand, dug into my purse, and handed her my little packet of kleenex.
She sniffed and wiped and blew and wiped.
I covered her hands again.
"You're serious?" I asked.
Her eyes were darting around the room, looking everywhere but at me.
"You want to join my," and it was my turn to stumble, thinking about how to put it into words.
"You want to join
our
strange, group marriage?" I asked.
She kept refusing to meet my eyes.
"Well?" I said, holding her eyes.
"Yes, no, maybe, oh fuck, you must think I'm crazy," she said in a rush.
I laughed.
Sammee considers "darn" to be strong language.
"Yes," she said finally, "God help me (and I giggled thinking of how many times I had used that phrase over the weekend), yes," she finished, "but," she went on quickly, "if you don't want me to I understand."
I laughed again.
"Sammee, trust me, there's plenty to go around," I said, "and if I was the jealous type I'd have walked away when you first said anything."
She looked up at me and said, "oh never mind. I'm just a crazy old woman anyway."
"Youngster," I said, after all, she was three years younger than me, "what does that say about me."
She giggled and said, "you know what I mean."
"Sammee," I said, leaning forward, holding her eyes, wanting her to understand how serious I was, "it's not JUST sex honey. God knows there's plenty of sex, but there's love here too."
She shivered a little and said, "I got that Jean, when you were talking about your, what did you call it, your 'strange group marriage,' and that's what got to me."
"Sammee," I said, "I'll talk to them. You're welcome into our group as far as I'm concerned, but I'm only one vote."
She smiled through eyes welling again.
"Do not," she said, and now it was her turn to emphasize the seriousness with her eyes and the grip on my hand, "jeopardize your good thing on my account."
I giggled and said, "oh trust me, I won't. But they're young and, well, you know how men are."
We talked for another hour over a third cup of coffee for me, mostly unimportant things like what was coming next for the Historical Society.
In the parking lot we embraced, or, well, she grabbed me in a big bear hug while I reached as far around her as I could.
Sammee is about five-foot nuthin' and tips the scales at about 300 pounds. She is beautiful, but she IS very round.
