She was about 28, Latina, packed into a short dress. He was in his late 40’s, balding. They were going to Manhattan Beach, ‘Milf hunting’, she announced, as they climbed into my Uber.
She had taken on the role of ringmaster for the evening, squirming in his lap as she explained the rules to him.
“Number one, Milfs like to be petted.”
“They do? How exactly?”
“Two fingers. Stroke her hair. They like to be touched. But not too hard.”
“Are three fingers too many?”
“Five are too many. That’s aggressive. Rule Number Two: avoid anyone dressed in red. They’re batshit crazy.”
“What about bright colors?”
“Seriously, no. It’s nature’s way of warning you of danger. Number three, I’ll signal you. If I go like this: (playing with necklace) that means you have ten minutes to close the deal. If I go like this: (flips hair) it means yes. If I rub my belly, it means I’m ready to go home. Basically, the lower I go, the crazier I think she is.”
On the freeway, her phone rang. She was not pleased. “Why are you calling?….none of your business….why are you going into my computer?…there’s nothing there for you….nothing….I’ll be there when I get there. Don’t call.”
Turning to her companion, she breathily told him, “he’s really obsessed with you.”
The phone call provided some kind of accelerant to the purpose of their evening. The conversation trailed off into wet, smacking kissing sounds for the remainder of the ride. Who she was to him and who the caller was to her, and how the Milfs fit into it remained a mystery, but I was entertained.
It also occurred to me my marriage was distressingly stable and predictable.
On Sunday we went to Chibiscus for noodles. Obeying an impulse, I publicly violated the Two-Finger Rule with Mrs. UpintheValley. Cupping her face in my palm, she responded with something tantalizingly akin to submissive purring. Perhaps the Milf hunters were on to something.
“Darling, I’m so happy….my ramen is here.”
And on that note, two bowls appeared before us, and we commenced to supper.