I Wish

I wish

Author’s Note: This story is a modification of the one written by my father in the early 1990s. While the scenes and the names are different than what was originally written, the plot and structure of the story is the same. The purpose behind this is due to an activity on Modal Verbs which you can find in the areavoices version of the Files by clicking here

 

I wish I could have done it. However, had I done it, my wife would have killed me, and I most likely would not have been any happier the next day. So it was probably the best that I didn’t do it. However, had I done it, I would not be wondering about it so much, and I knew I would be kicking myself for not doing it back in high school. It was at that time, I had my chicken-shit of a buddy Martin, who spoiled the opportunity for me by backing out the last minute. Why? I met this girl named Dorothea, a beautiful tall girl with long sandy-blond hair strolling down the backside, well-figured with fine thin muscular legs. Little did I realize is that this girl was the daughter of the mayor of a small local town in Minnesota, and my pseudo-informant friend of mine should have informed me about it beforehand. Especially as my Catholic-devout grandmother once told me “Steve, you must not date a high-ranking government official,” she added “If you have to, you must date the daughter of our pastor.”  My response came with “Grandma, why should I date a Jesus-freak when I can try and marry into a highly-esteemed rich family?”

So one night, after a date with a movie, which I had to take Martin along to avoid trouble, we drove out to the country side. We would have gotten busy had Martin not told us every second minute that there was a car coming, despite the fact that there were only crickets chirping outside our car- the only action going on that night.  Angry that I could not have my peace and quiet with Dorothea, I had to promise her that we would have to meet another time, but without Martin. Unfortunately her decline in my invitation broke my heart and my friendship with the person better off wearing diapers because of his paranoia. So we parted ways, never speaking to each other…..

….until our 15-year class reunion!

While I had married the pastor’s daughter, after three years in the Marines stationed in Iraq, and had three boys with her, Dorothea had just gone through three men (and having four children total) and is newly divorced. Normally in a small town setting, if you don’t want to be considered  a strumpet, you must not abandon the relationship with your first lover. But looking like a Playboy centerfold entering the scene turns off every wife who whispers into the husband’s ears that he would be scrubbing dishes, sinks, ovens and garbage cans for a full month if there was any contact with her.  Yet she does not talk to anyone and approaches me, saying “Hey there, Steve. Do you remember me?”  I respond by saying “How could I not forget you?” I add insult to injury to my wife by asking her how things were. After saying I’m fine, she steps forward by lending her hand and saying “Will you dance with me?”

Oh shit! Sandwiched between my strict Catholic wife ready to grab my family jewels and her opening a rather painful wound of regret, I must make a decision: her or me. I size up the situation quickly and say “I wish I could but I promised every dance to my wife.”  I must do that if I want to remain faithful to her 100%. The reaction is swift but with a small nervous laugh that gets my wife irritated. Blushing, I quickly hold out my hand to my wife asking “Shall we, my dear?” At the same time, Dorothea smiles, winks an me and walks off, while my wife slaps the hand away and asks me “Why did you laugh at me, Steve?” At that moment I cannot escape except with a good mug of Flensburger Flotilla (a combination of beer, apple juice and a shot of rum) at the bar. I excuse myself, see Martin sitting on the stool, knock him off while calling him “Chicken shit!” and start draining the keg, in hopes I can forget the woman I fell in love with many years ago…..

….which unfortunately, I cannot even if I tried.

Flensburg Files logo France 15

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