Vampire Dinner Date
The room smelled pleasant. The restaurant was loud, jovial, and for the most part people seemed to be enjoying the ambiance. Waiters shuffled Italian food from the kitchen through two swinging doors.
“Interesting choice,” she said.
“It’s been a while since we had Italian,” I said.
“That’s not true, there was that guy vacationing from Naples last year.”
I sat a table for two near the entrance with my wife of 111 years, though she didn’t a day over 30. She was radiate, tall, and her tangling brown hair fell to her shoulders, but she had a poise about her that defied her apparent age. Her brown eyes nearly shined in the low light of the room, and if you looked close enough you could see the thin, red lines in her retina, a tell-tale sign of our species. She wore a blood red dress with black heels, and nearly every man in the restaurant turned when she walked in. Even through the salad course, some of them kept looking over their shoulders. I didn’t mind. After a hundred years together, one tends not to sweat the small things. Not that either of us sweat.
A delightful young woman waited on us. She poured my wife another glass of wine.
“Are we ready to order?” she said.
“I’ll have the carbonara please,” my wife said.
“And, I’d like the penne arrabiata,” I said, “please have the chef go easy on the garlic.” I winked at my wife.
The waitress left. My wife swirled the wine in her glass, taking a small sip and set the glass down, leaving a red lipstick print on the glass.
The main dishes arrived. We ate in silence. The pasta was fine. It was well cooked and the sauce was spicy enough, and the chef restrained himself with that awful member of the allium family. We paid the check, and left the waitress a hefty tip. It was the least we could do, considering.
We waited in the car near the restaurant, for far too long. Twice I thought we drew more attention of police officers monitoring the downtown district. Finally, the waitress appeared in the alley. My wife snuck out of the car. I watched her approach the waitress. Women are usually less suspicious of other women late at night. There wasn’t much of a struggle. My wife used her superior strength to subdue the woman, and bring her back to the car.
At home, we sat at the dining room table; after all it was a special occasion. I looked at my wife, “Hungry dear?“
“Famished. Though our dinner guest doesn’t look very hungry.”
The waitress was tied to the chair at the far side of the table. Her mouth was gagged by a white piece of cloth.
She started shaking when we both got up.
“Happy Anniversary,” we said to each other.
My wife drank first.