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“Peanut butter is the same color as an Amazon box. It’s overkill.”
“Are you about ready to put these on and go impress my coworkers?” he asks. He eyes me up and down, appraising the tight jeans with high-heeled boots. Licking his lips, his eyes move to my arms where I’m wearing a brown cashmere sweater the color of something made with peanuts. The look in his eyes says he doesn’t care how well my sweater matches the color of peanut butter. He follows the curve of my waist down to my hips and flexes his hands like he wants to reach out and touch me.
I dig the keys out of my purse and gesture to the door. “I better drive. I’m not sure we can negotiate these costumes on the bike.”
The bar is smokey even though there’s a city smoking ban on indoor places. I wave my hands in front of my face, fanning the smoke away from my nose and lamenting that I’ll have to wash my hair again. I sip the beer in my hands and smile politely at the conversation between other wives and girlfriends at the table. Looking across the room, Wilder smiles from the dartboard where he’s certain to win about fifty bucks.
He holds up his beer, giving me a mock salute. “How do you know Wilder?” one of the wives asks, pulling me from Wilder’s gaze.
I turn to face her. They’re all so nice, and I’m enjoying the conversation with them. All are under thirty except for the shop owner’s wife, who is exceptionally cool for a woman of fifty. The other women were friendly and immediately asked me to sit with them as the men play darts. It’s nice to be out of the house with women besides Melissa, and I should really try to make more friends.
I’m just not sure if I’ll see these women after cuffing season. Is it worth it to exchange phone numbers and social media information with them?
“We met at a speed dating event,” I answer honestly. I don’t mention it was only for cuffing season or that my mother asked me to date someone so she could pay me for it.
The woman next to me, Elle, looks back at the boys and smiles through her vampire costume makeup. “Total babe that one. You’re lucky,” she says, looking over the rim of her beer. “I did speed dating once.” She shudders and looks off in the distance like she’s remembering a tour in Vietnam. “Dreadful experience. I’d rather get a genital rash than go back.”
“You could get a genital rash if you go back,” Wilder’s boss’s wife, Tara, says.
We burst into laughter, and another woman looks me up and down. “You look like you could use some shots.”
“I don’t know. I don’t really do shots. I usually just stick with beer or wine.” I wave my hands in a poopooing motion. "I'll sit these out."
"You ever have a pickle shot?” Elle asks.
“I’ve had pickles. Is there a shot involved?” Is there no end to the social stuff the cool kids know but I don’t?
Tara throws up her hand as the other women clap and hoot. “Pickle shots!” she yells to the waitress. “And keep them coming.”
I watch the bartender pour something from a pre-made container into shot glasses positioned on a tray and add a slice of dill pickle on the rims. When the first batch is ready, she hands it over the bar to our waitress and starts on the next batch.
The smell of pickles and vodka hits me as soon as the waitress approaches the table. She gingerly places two shots in front of each of us and backs away. The dill scent is thick. I like pickles, but I don’t know how I’ll feel about the juice mixed with vodka.
“Want me to show you how it’s done?” Wilder asks, wrapping his arms around me from behind and kissing the place where my shoulder meets my neck. Two of the women at the table squeak as they watch his lips meet my skin with wide eyes.
“I’m not sure I can handle this.”
He picks up one of the shots and holds it in the center of the table. “Pick it up, Savannah.”
I do as he asks and so do the other women. We clink our glasses, and Wilder and the other women throw their shots back. Wilder takes his in one gulp and chews the dill pickle piece as soon as he swallows the liquid. “Eat the pickle after. It may help.”
All eyes are on me as I sniff the shot. Peer pressure makes me exhale so that I can’t smell it. Eventually, I get the sour drink down my throat and frantically suck on the dill pickle slice as I cough and sputter.
Wilder pushes his face into my hair. “That’s a good girl.”
He walks away, going back to the dart board, but my panties are ruined. Is it the alcohol, or is it because he just called me a good girl with his body pressed next to me?
Another round of shots comes, and I drink the two offered to me and accept a beer Wilder sent over to the table. He winks when I drink it, the alcohol churning in my stomach. I don’t party like this very often. At all, really.
The other women do more shots, and I marvel they’re still standing. Wilder wins at darts, and the men stuff dollars and swipe their credit cards into the jukebox, playing Halloween songs. A group gets up to dance to “Thriller,” complete with the moves from the old video from before I was born, but my vision starts to blur, and I sit down to keep the room from spinning.
“Want to dance?” Wilder asks when another song comes on.
“I can barely stand. I think you’ll have to drive home. Pickle shots are not my friend.”
He laughs and waves to the waitress for another beer. “I’ll drive, snickerdoodle. You enjoy yourself. Something tells me you don’t get ripped very often.”
“I don’t get anything very often.”
