Her lips were so close to my ear I could feel them move as she breathed into my ear, so softly nobody else could hear, "So, brother dear, have you ever fucked a virgin?"
I heard her giggle very softly and then the pressure on my neck, where she held me to her, was suddenly gone.
I pulled back enough to look at her and saw that she was sleeping.
I looked at Dr. Ben. I suppose the concern was showing on my face.
"That's what narcolepsy looks like," he said, smiling as he watched me cover my sister, giving her some modicum of modesty. "She's okay, just sleeping, But when she wakes up she won't remember this so don't be surprised when you need to introduce yourselves again."
"Wow," I said, looking at Lindsey and then back to the doctor.
"Is there anything we can do here?" Rita asked him.
"Not really. Like I said, we'd like to keep her for a few days and you can make arrangements but she can go home any time," he said.
"Okay," she said, clearly in control now, "And she won't remember any of this today, right?"
"Nope," he said.
"Okay, thanks doctor, we'll be in touch," she said, "come on, Honey." She took my hand and we started back through the maze, seeking a piece of cheese, an exit, and the car.
"Okay, She Who Must Be Obeyed," I said once we were in the car, "now what."
"City Hall first," she said.
"What's there?" I asked.
"Betrothed," she said, "I'm going to lock you down. We're getting married and then we're going furniture shopping."
"Married?" I asked.
"Are you getting cold feet?" she asked.
I thought about it.
"No," I said.
"Then what's the problem?" she asked.
"I just always associated weddings with, you know, planning and big deals and stuff," I said.
"Honey," she said, "I did that once. It wasn't as much fun as I thought it would be. But I do want the paper."
I patted her on the knee.
And then I started singing - - I'm gettin' married in the morning. Ding dong the bells are gonna ring.
She laughed.
"Well, in the afternoon anyway," she said.
Getting married in Colorado is amazingly simple. We found the county recorder's office and presented our driver's licenses to confirm our identities. Then, right there, leaning over awkwardly at the counter, we completed the forms signed them, and Rita wrote a check for thirty dollars. The clerk recorded them and there it was, we were husband and wife. Hell, I didn't even kiss the bride.
"Furniture shopping?" I asked.
"Honey, we're going to have you, me, and 300 pounds of nymphomaniac in the bed, we'll need a BIG bed," she said.
That stopped me.
I guess something in my body language let her know I was surprised.
"Oh, come ON," she said, "you're not really thinking about NOT bringing her home, are you?"
I said nothing for a few seconds.
"Well fuck, Husband-o-mine, I don't know about you but I'm gettin' me some of that," she said.
I finally managed to catch up with the conversation.
"She asked me if I'd ever fucked a virgin," I said.
"And?" she asked.
"I haven't," I said and there was not one thing I could do to stop the grin that spread across my face, "but I intend to."
She damn near wrecked us when she popped her seat belt loose and crawled across the seats to kiss me.
"Oh," she breathed into my ear, "I can't wait for our three-way honeymoon."
We stopped at a furniture store she knew,
Howard Lorton
if it matters. It turned out, the biggest "stock" bed was something called a California King. We tried it out but, as big as it looked, when we laid on it together it was clear it would be pretty crowded with Lindsey in it too.
This time I was the one who came up with a solution.
We drove over to a place in Aurora where I worked the summer of my Senior year. My shop teacher thought I was a bright guy and got me the job. Bob Grindle, the shop owner, was a big bear of a man who greeted me with a bear hug.
"And who is this?" he asked, looking at Rita.
"Bob," I said doing introductions as Mom had taught me, "this is Rita Rogers," and I corrected myself, "Rita Morgan, my wife of," I glanced at my watch, "two hours and eighteen minutes."
He grabbed her in a bear hug.
"Welcome to the family," he said, and she giggled.
I told him what I had in mind.
"Not a big problem," he said.
"But can I have it by Friday?" I asked.
He gave me that look I recognized from when I had worked for him.
"Will you be helping?" he asked.
"Sure," I said, and the deal was done.
It was fun to not quibble about the price.
As we left the shop Rita hung on my arm making me lean to keep my balance.
"It's been a while since I was a newlywed," she said, "so take me to dinner. I intend to make you need your energy."
I laughed, thought, and said, "Done."
I drove to a place Mom and Dad had liked, Dad always claimed it was the best Italian food in Denver.
Pagliaci's
is in Denver's Little Italy and the restaurant always reminded me of something you might have seen in
The Godfather
. There were about twenty tables, the half-dozen along the wall set for two, what my brief excursion into the restaurant business as a busboy when I was 15 taught me were "two-tops," with the rest as four-tops. The tables were square with red and white gingham-checked tablecloths, Chianti bottles with candle wax dripping down serving as a centerpiece, and simple knife-fork-spoon place settings forks on the left, knife (blade to the plate) on the right and spoon flanking the knife. You wouldn't find dessert forks, fish knives, oyster forks, salad forks, dessert spoons, or soup spoons here, just the basics.
It was early for dinner, but I figured Rita wouldn't mind what with our honeymoon coming up and all.
Even at five o'clock, the parking lot was half full but we didn't have any trouble getting a seat. The waitress, one of those incredibly pretty butterball women about five feet tall and five feet wide (
cinco por cinco
my friend Bobby Valdez had once told me about how Latino men preferred their women) with hair so dark you could call it black that hung in a braid the thickness of my arm almost to her ass, took our order. She looked at me, one eyebrow raised, when I ordered a bottle of the house Chianti to go with the lasagna, but didn't card me.
I poured the first glass and offered it across the table as a toast.
"What are we drinking to?" she asked.
I had been thinking about this all the way to the restaurant.
"To love, lust, and lingering pleasure with my beautiful bride," I said.
Her breath caught and I saw her eyes well up.
"Okay," she said, draining her glass, "that was pretty good and now I need to go fix my face."
I laughed and watched her walk to the back of the restaurant where the bathrooms were. I'm pretty sure she put a little extra shake in her butt. She's a slender woman but she does wear the hell out of those tight jeans she favors.
I sipped at the wine, so hard and dry I wondered if I could remove paint with it, and did a little people-watching. At this early hour, the customers were mostly young singles or couples grabbing dinner after work.
I watched her coming back to the table, noting that there was definitely some extra sway in her walk, and wondered what that was in her hand.
"Here, honey," she said, handing me her bra and panties, "I won't be needing these."
I laughed. She hadn't made a big production of it, but she hadn't hidden what she was doing either, so I lifted them and looked, as if it was the menu or something, before folding them and tucking them into my pocket. I noticed a couple a few tables away watching and flashed them an across-the-room toast.
I laughed again when the man flashed me a thumbs up and leaned across the table to say something to the woman with him, wondering if it was a wife or girlfriend. When she got up, glanced our way, and headed toward the bathrooms I said, "I think you started a trend?"
"What's that?" she asked.
