Food, Boundaries, and the Fastest Way to Ruin a Lovely Dinner
MysteryShrink Short
The couple at the next table at Brennan’s in old New Orleans giggled and smiled like newly weds- which they were. Both widowed in their sixties, they’d met a year ago on a cruise and married six months later. At the point I begin eavesdropping, the lovebirds are lamenting the delay in establishing a home where they can be together. The new husband is caring for his ninety-six-year-old mother who lives with him in Costa Rica. The wife lives in Connecticut where she helps her daughter with two-year-old triplets born with severe brain impairments.
As the designated eavesdropper, I’m drawn to these dear, generous people who have sacrificed much to help their families when being ‘alone together’ is clearly heaven.
The husband sweeps his champagne flute toward his bride and says: “Finally, we are alone if only for five days. I want to relish every moment of togetherness.”
She clinks her glass on his and says: “I feel the same way. I wish my brain had a camera like my phone and I could a picture a second. Then when I’m lonely back in Connecticut, I could live each moment over and over.”
He leans in to gaze into her eyes. She leans in. I lean in.
Ninety seconds later the wife will whip an airline ticket from her purse and fire it across the table. How could that happen?
Like this: The happy husband heaves back in his chair and says: “This city is my favorite place for breakfast. I always do the same thing. Like this morning. I got down here about six. The French Quarter is still foggy, the air smells like old perfume and sweet tobacco. I settle into one of those white iron tables at the patio restaurant in Jackson Square and have a tall draft, eggs with sausages and a pile of skillet-fried potatoes and onions.”
The wife gasps. “You have what?”
The restaurant goes silent. The Old New Orleans ambience is gone.
Oblivious to the earthquake brewing, the husband keeps going: “Then, I finish up with chicory coffee and some of those French doughnuts–”
The wife’s color has changed: “You had beer for breakfast?”
He says: “I did. Why? What’s the problem? I’ve had the same breakfast here for fifty years.”
She says: “What’s the problem? How about your high blood pressure and high cholesterol, for starters? How about the warnings from your doctor? Do you know how much fat is in those sausages?”
He says: “No, I do not know not, and you know what? I don’t want to know.” He knocks back the rest of his champagne.
She says: “I’m only saying this because I love you and care about your health. Once we’re living together–no more sausages.”
He sits up straighter. “Okay, if being a good wife means taking away my sausages, I’ll be a good husband and lock up the vodka after you’ve had three–because I love you so much.”
She says: “Fine with me!” This is when the wife rocket-mails the airline ticket packet. “I’m going back to Connecticut where I’m appreciated.”
He says: “Sounds like an excellent plan!” He launches a hotel room key across the table. “You can have this room all to yourself. I’ll stay alone where I can eat and drink whatever I want.” 
