In which I’m rescued.

Last night, Brett actually wanted to do something. We went to town and spent a few hours at The Red Rock tavern (we call it the Dead Cock because it’s such a nasty bar). Ed was having a going away party and there was nothing else to do.

I had a blast talking with Hattie and Rachel. I had a few cocktails. Brett was drinking Red Bull & Jagermeister, of all things. (I had a sip of one and it tastes much better than it sounds, but still.)

Rachel & Hattie
Rachel & Hattie doing a boisterous “Ha-ha-haaah!” for me

Hattie eventually left, and Rachel and I moved to the dance floor.

You have to understand that my husband has never had a jealous moment since I met him. All the times I’ve needed rescuing from various drunken and over-friendly male humanoids, he’s done nothing. Once, years ago, when I asked him about it, he said, “Ah, I figure you can take care of yourself.”

Well, last night while Rachel and I were dancing, a couple of older Mexican dudes moved in on us and tried to dance with us. One of them was touching me. I gave Rachel the look, and she moved in and got the guy off me per the strictures of proper girls-in-a-bar-fending-off-unwanted-advances etiquette: we had it handled. Still, within less than two seconds Brett was suddenly there, and he was clearly smokin’ pissed off. He made a space around me in the middle of the very packed and very loud dance floor and yelled in my ear, “Let’s go before I get in a fight with this fucking guy.” I leaned over to Rachel and said, “Sorry, guess I’m leaving now. Bye,” and Brett immediately dragged me out of the bar.

He was so angry he was literally pale as we walked to his truck. I have never seen this kind of behaviour out of him in the seven years we’ve been together. I think that years ago this kind of jealous/protective posturing would have made feel all warm and fuzzy inside, but last night it just pissed me off because it was so out of left field. (And because I’m so tired of having him drag me home as soon as the music gets good enough to dance to.)

I asked him about it today, and he shrugged and said, “A man just shouldn’t put his hands on another man’s wife like that.” I told him that’s just how Latin dudes are and that the guy didn’t mean anything by it, and I teased him about all the other times he didn’t do shit for me. He said he didn’t really have a good reason for last night’s behavior, it just made him really fucking angry to see that guy touching me like that. (All he did was put his hands on my waist for second, and try to capture my hands to dance with me.)

“Could it have been from all the caffeine in all that Red Bull you were drinking?” I teased.

“Coulda been,” he admitted. “Because I doubt it was from the Jagermeister.”

 

One Response to A Night at the Dead Cock

  1. Mush says:

    Truck called me and said that {a} he can only leave comments if they’re dirty, and {b} Brett is an excellent judge of character, and the the Latin dudes frequenting the Dead Cock these days aren’t cool.

    So there you have it: I DID need to be rescued, and I was. Yay!

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