Steve pushed a couple of singles towards the bartender from his change, and then slid over to Andrea. They sat together at the bar, and he silently hoped against hope that she'd calm down, enjoy herself and allow him to relax. So far their tenth anniversary vacation had not gone as well as planned. Always opinionated and a little particular, Andrea was also outspoken. Some of his friends , he knew, considered her stuck up, or snooty, or spoiled. He knew her tastes were more materialistic than his own; he'd known that since they'd started dating, and ten years of marriage hadn't altered that. He'd surprised her with his plan for this vacation, and she'd been delighted at first: the opportunity to go someplace warm, together, and enjoy each other away from their regular lives. Her delight had lasted until she'd found out that he had booked them in a hotel far from the strip and the action. She had immediately let him know what she thought of his idea, and what she really wanted. She wanted night life, and attention, and to spend more than they could afford. She wanted clubs and restaurants, and action, and to have her entertainment thrown at her.
He had seen this vacation as an opportunity to relax, to do nothing, to unwind together and reconnect. For once in his life he'd stood his ground, insisting that they would have plenty of fun, that it was a short drive to the beach. He preferred casual settings; she preferred to dress up and go out. He wanted conversation, and few plans, she wanted music and laughs and a schedule of events. She had gone along, unwillingly, and let him know at least once a week until the day they left that she was doing it for him, and that she knew she wouldn't enjoy herself.
And sure enough, here it was day three, and she was right so far; she was miserable, and let him know it just about every minute of every day. She seemed to not grasp the concept of doing something for someone else, despite all the years that he had forfeited his desires to make her happy, doing what she wanted, when she wanted to do it. He would suffer her in silence, preferring to acquiesce instead of arguing, going along to get along. She, apparently, was unable to do that, even this once, despite his telling her how much it would mean to him. So they had argued since they'd arrived, or rather she had argued with him, expressing her dissatisfaction with the hotel location, the rental car, the room, the food, the lack of action and activity. He was starting to feel as though the end of his rope was dangerously close; that not only was this vacation a mistake, but that their marriage was. He loved her, he knew it, but he didn't want to fight. And she didn't either, as long as she got her way. Usually he just gave in, but this week they were supposed to be doing it his way. And they did. But with her continuous verbal barrage of criticism.
And she was not one to suffer in silence, he thought, sipping his beer. Worse, she did not have it in her to complain quietly. When they were alone, or out of reasonable earshot of others, he had learned to mostly tune her out. But it was times like this, in this local town bar, that her ranting became uncomfortable for him.
He had chosen this bar because it looked like the type of place he would like to hang out – quiet, never too busy, and you could relax with your friends and have a decent conversation. He'd seen it on one of his drives to get beer for the room, seen the people going in, thinking that it was the type of crowd he could be comfortable in. When they came in he was pleased to see that he was right. A group of friends, maybe ten people, were the only patrons, and clearly regulars, town folks, working people. Dressed in a variety of jeans and tee shirts, boots and sneakers, they were just regular workaday folks like himself, having a couple of drinks after getting off their day jobs. So Andrea's hectoring onslaught embarrassed him, knowing her voice was, as usual when in this state, too loud, too insistent, and out of place for the atmosphere.
"Oh, yeah," she said sarcastically, "this is great Steve. It figures you'd pick a shit hole like this." Steve saw the bartenders ears prick up at that statement. "I should have known after you put us in that crappy half-ass hotel that you'd want to come to a place like this." The bartender pretended to do something under the bar, but Steve saw his eyes looking over, and the look let him know that he'd heard. Shit. He really didn't want to respond to her, but he needed her to keep her voice down if she couldn't keep her opinion to herself.
"Honey, can you hold it down a little?" he asked under his breath.
"Stop it," she dismissed, "what are you, worried that these local losers can't handle hearing the truth? You think they don't know they hand out in a shit-hole bar?"
He steamed inwardly. She had a problem discerning her opinion from the facts, generally assuming that her opinion was right because, well, it was her opinion. And she was not shy about expressing it.
"Listen," he said hesitantly, "I just think that you might consider someone else for a few seconds, and keep your opinions a little lower." He knew there was no point asking her not to express them. That would never happen. But he didn't want to insult anyone.
"Well, I'm sorry," she whined in a lower voice, leaning into him, "I don't want to be here, and I don't like these people, and I don't want this beer." She pushed it back to him.
"What would you like?" he asked, trying to change the subject.
"I would like a margarita," she pouted. "Somewhere else."
"I'll order you a margarita," he said. "But we are not leaving. This is supposed to be a vacation, not a week-long fight." He sighed, motioned to the bartender, and ordered a margarita. He looked at her while he waited for her drink. She was silent, and despite the half scowl she was wearing he could only see her beauty, the darkly seductive face that had first attracted him. Half Italian, her eyes were large and dark, accentuated by her dark eye makeup, her thin nose slightly long, her high cheekbones and sharp jaw framing a set of full, sensuous lips that seemed to hardly smile anymore. He touched her hand. "Can't you just relax, just be happy to be together?" She turned and looked at him, the look on her face telling him she did not understand the purpose of the question. "Can't you just be happy? Why do you always have to be miserable?" Her mouth opened slightly. "For once in your life can you just-"
"Oh, shut up!" she blurted, grimacing angrily. Her voice was loud again as the bartender returned with her drink. He glanced at the sole waitress, a slight blonde girl of maybe twenty, who rolled her eyes, then gave Steve a look of understanding. "Just because you like to hang out in broke down loser bars with strangers, you want me to pretend to be happy? No way!" The bartender returned with his change, but his look had changed to one of warning, and Steve caught him motioning to the crowd in the back.
Steve glanced over, saw that some of them had heard Andrea's outburst, and touched her hand. "Honey, hold it down, please. There's no need to..."
"Hold what down?" she asked at full volume. Steve just knew it could be heard over the low-volume jukebox. He lowered his hear a little. "Oh, are you embarrassed of me? Afraid someone might hear that I have an opinion? Well, too bad!" She sipped her drink, put the glass back down. "Oh, shit, it's fucking awful." She turned to Steve. "That is about the worst margarita I've ever had."
"Sh-hhhh..."
"Don't you shush me!" she snapped at him. "It was your decision to come here! I wanted to go somewhere nice, with nice people, and maybe get a decent drink." She looked at him. Even angry, she was still beautiful. She had turned on her barstool and was facing him now. "But no, not Mr. Regular Guy," she sneered, "Mr. boring wants to go to the boring bar and do boring things with the boring," she motioned with her hand dismissively towards the group in the back, "locals," she added with sarcastic emphasis.
He glanced over her shoulder to the group in the back. The waitress was bringing them their beers, but about half of them were looking in his direction. She'd clearly been heard, and several of them looked displeased. He looked at them, six guys and four girls, the oldest probably his own age, mid-thirties, the youngest maybe twenty, one of the girls. He caught the eye of one guy, a large fellow, who seemed to be the natural group leader. Tall, light brown hair and well built, he seemed easy-going and forceful at once, and the others seemed to defer to his charisma. He knew that he could like that guy, these people. Throw some darts. Knock down a few beers. They didn't deserve what his wife was saying, any more than he did. The tall guy caught his gaze, and raised his eyebrows questioningly; he made a subtle motion towards the group he was with. Steve understood the unspoken suggestion, and tried again to quiet Andrea.
"Honey, come on, just calm down a little ..."
"Don't 'calm down' me," she blurted dismissively. "You wanted to come here. I didn't. I don't like it here, and I don't care who knows it." She turned back to the bar, took a long pull from her drink. She huffed. "If you drink it fast, it's only half bad," she sneered. She motioned to the bartender for another, even though she was only half finished. He glanced at Steve, and Steve nodded, and the bartender set to making her another. Andrea caught the looks.
"Oh, great, so now I can't order a drink without your okay?" she sniped.
"You know, you could be a little nicer to people." He turned to her. "I know that you can't be nicer to me, but you could be nicer to people you haven't met." He felt his usual tolerance slipping away. "Just because you like to treat me like shit when you don't get your way is no reason to treat everyone like shit; you don't know them, and they haven't done anything to you." He struggled to keep the edge off his voice.
The bartender came back, and waited as Steve took money from his wallet. He dropped a couple of twenties on the bar. He finished his beer and started on the other one as the bartender rag up the drinks and returned with the change. He stood facing Steve, and extended his hand.
"Ron," he said. Steve introduced himself. "You seem like a nice guy, Steve." He leaned in to him, lowered his voice. "This is my bar, man, and those folk over there are regulars, this is where they hang. They know me, and I know them. I'd really prefer if they didn't have their evening ruined."
