He left his night light on in the bedroom. He put on his tone on tone blue bathrobe and his lambskin lined napa leather bedroom slippers.
She was sleeping soundly on the bed. He suspected she was stoned last night when they hooked up at Hemingway’s. She lay face down, her long mane of blonde hair cascading beautifully on her smooth bare back.
He was going to prepare his red wine adobo, famous among his friends for its stick to the bones flavor and the whimsical stewed grapes he uses as garnish.
He only had vague memories of last night. He was getting sloshed at the bar to celebrate his divorce. It took him three years to extricate himself from his ex-wife. They couldn’t agree on how to split his inheritance after they parted ways. He promised himself he would demand a prenup next time he gets hitched. If he gets hitched again.
He was going to wake her up, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember her name. He peeked into his bedroom and was happy to see her awake.
She was covering her mouth and frantically rummaging through the sheets.
In the afternoon light her wrinkles were more obvious than he wanted them to be. Her blonde locks were thinning in places.
“Anything wrong?” he asked.
“I can’t seem to find my dentures,” she said, showing blackened bicuspids. They were all the teeth she had.
He went straight into the kitchen and dumped his special adobo into the garbage bin. He put on tan chinos and a white polo shirt.
“Okay. I have an errand to run. Just let yourself out okay? Bye.”
He didn’t wait for her reply.
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