The Secret Of A Silent Guy

Chapter 1

I stuffed my last cardboard box of personal belongings into the cargo hold of my girlfriend's Toyota Rav4, jumped into the passenger seat, and waited while she fussed over a map with directions to our new home. Darlene was like that - a stickler for details. She flipped her shoulder-length hair out of her eyes for the umpteenth time and squinted to read the tiny print. Mapmakers tended to hide the most critical information in the smallest print known to man.

Finally finished, she turned to me and smiled. "Let's go!" She put the Rav into drive, and we started on our way. We were going to start a new life off the grid.

Darlene was a smart, feisty little brown-haired woman, just under five feet five inches tall, with small breasts, shoulder length hair, and a freckled baby face.

Darlene and I moved in together to save money when my landlord evicted me from my apartment for nonpayment of rent. We believed that two could live as cheaply as one. We were right, but only for half as long.

We met at a local tavern where we developed an unlikely May-December relationship.

Through the process of elimination, we had become drinking buddies at our local tavern. I'm not sure "buddies" is the correct word. More often than not, we were the last people still standing when the barkeep bellowed out, "Last call for alcohol!"

Initially, geography was our common bond. The tavern, built in the 1890s, featured a Walnut and Mahogany bar with an odd little 'L' shaped hook at the far corner of the saloon. The bar and a back wall of brick formed a naturally cozy little alcove large enough to accommodate three bar stools.

According to local legend, the original owner ordered the hook's construction to allow him to observe activities of untrustworthy bartenders behind the bar while also keeping an eye on equally untrustworthy patrons. The voyeur and hermit in me loved the location, and I had it all to myself for several months until the day Darlene arrived. She also loved the strategic location.

Like commuters sharing an across town bus, we got used to each other's presence on the installment plan. Familiarity grew comfortable and gave way to conversation as we observed the ebb and flow of tavern life.

It all started with casual flirting. She flirted. I was casual.

Hell, she flirted with everyone: Men, women, and even the bartender's mangy tomcat. While I enjoyed the sometimes something, I never considered Darlene as potential girlfriend material. She was a young vixen, and I was an old wolf. I amused myself trying to sneak a peek down her blouse or up her skirt when I thought she wouldn't notice.

One Friday night the stars governing our relationship aligned like the bars on a slot machine. Heads turned as Darlene strutted into the tavern in a blur of legs, cleavage, and the predatory smile of a fox. Her outfit left little to the imagination. Her mini-dress must have been a belt in a previous life, and her tissue-thin blouse was unbuttoned down to her navel. She wore no bra.

"That's a nice outfit you are almost wearing," I did a double take when she hopped up on the barstool next to mine.

"Panties optional dress code?" I nodded as I filed that image into my long-term memory vault.

"Like it? I'm going to get laid tonight. One of these stud-muffins is going home with me," she chuckled with a little shiver and scanned the bar for targets of opportunity. I grimaced; envy flavored a bit oddly by jealousy. What a curious blend of emotions for a virtual stranger.

I did an inventory of my own.

Most of the men in the tavern looked like drop-outs from Blubber Buddies or some such weight-watching group. I had recently gone from 215 to 185 pounds. I felt authorized to gloat.