He flicked the kill switch and coasted into the parking lot. With the heel of his boot, he casually deployed the kick-stand just in time to let the gradually halting motorcycle keel over into a gentle three-point pose. Still astride, he slipped off his black, high-cuffed gloves and removed his helmet. Its mirror finish reflected bursts of sunlight as he stuffed the gloves into the flashing orb. Pressing down on the ignition key, he gave a subtle twist and released. The small key rocketed upward several inches where he snatched it from its apex and slid it into the breast pocket of his green leather jumper. She dismounted from the passenger seat, pried off her pearl white head armor and immediately squatted in front of the small rear-view mirror that angled downward from the left handlebar. Using her long crimson-colored nails she anxiously primped at her short platinum hair. Once she finally deemed herself presentable she stood up, reached out to cup his face in both hands and emphatically pressed her deep red lips over his. For her, the long lazy day she was spending with him could not have been more perfect.

"Mmmmmmm," she hummed, lingering a moment before breaking the kiss. Then she rubbed her cheek hard into his and exhaled a husky, "Thank you."

"Not sure what I did," he said, "but if you tell me, I will definitely do it again!"

"You just never mind," she scolded while shaking a finger at him in mock rebuke. With the thumb of her other hand, she wiped away the scarlet traces that she'd left on his lips.

For most Mary's Lakeside Grill would not be considered fine dining, but for a couple of lowly human service workers, Mary's offered a decent meal at a modest price. The pier deck built out into the water to accommodate summer boating customers also offered a prime platform for watching sunsets through the surrounding willows.

Walking toward the entrance she wedged herself under his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"Who's my...?" She asked while coyly coaxing him to complete the question.

Though her baiting brought a faint smile to his face, he nevertheless resisted the obligatory response. Instead, he draped his arm around her neck and gave a little tug hoping that small reassurance might satisfy the moment.

"Come on, say it!" she insisted pulling at his open collar. "Who's my...?"

He rolled his eyes. He found this recurring exercise particularly inane. Still, he knew from experience a failure to comply might well result in a far more disagreeable circumstance. Besides, he secretly enjoyed the implied sentiment.

"Pumpkin pie," he relented.

"There now, that wasn't so bad," She teased as she patted and then rubbed his back in small circles.

Seated at one of the many sturdy picnic tables occupying Mary's deck, she ordered a plate of steamers and he a chicken pie with a side of corncobs. During the course of their meal, she embarked upon a detailed description of the hats and slacks she'd recently rummaged through at her favorite consignment shop. Assembling novel outfits from the castaways of others was one of her many passions, a craft well-honed by a chronic lack of disposable income.

He tended to regard her ensembles as more costume than fashion. Today's attire for example featured an antique pair of cream-colored Jodhpur trousers. How she managed to scrounge up articles like a nearly forty-year-old pair of perfectly preserved Jodhpurs was a wonderment to him. She especially delighted in the big floppy pockets because they precluded the need for a purse. In complement, she wore a white tuxedo shirt, black satin vest and a cardinal blazer. The high heels of her high-cut black leather boots weren't quite in keeping with the apparent fox chase theme, but partnered with a bow of thin black ribbon tied tightly around her neck, they afforded the provocative signature that stamped most of her ensembles.

"...and the gray pleated wool pants would go perfectly with my winter jacket," she said before pausing to swallow.

Fiddling his coke bottle he observed, "You know, you're fixated in some sort of latency age attic-dress-up state."

She wrinkled her nose dismissively and without missing a beat began to expand upon what she considered the appropriate degree of contrast between solid colors and patterns. He listened as best he could while observing the swarms of insects hovering in the late afternoon sunny patches along the shoreline. He also kept an eye on what appeared to be a thundercloud forming over the north end of the lake. As a veteran motorcycle rider, it was his habit to sweep the sky for signs of rain.

He was savoring the final few spoons of his brownie sundae desert when she abruptly queried, "Why did you give me that look when I showed you my new blouse?"

As if on cue, lightning flashed across the horizon. The lessons of a prior marriage had not been completely lost on him. He knew trouble when he heard it and found the distant rumble of thunder all too fitting.

"What look?" he defended.

"The brow lifting, head tilting, cheek pulled back look," she pressed.

He thought, well hoped, he had sufficiently smoothed over that small tactical blunder. Clearly, he had fooled no one but himself. Sensing any possibility of redemption slipping away as fast as the blood rushing from his face, he quickly concluded that he had only two options. He could continue to feign innocence, which would piss her off, or he could take a risk and come clean, which would piss her off. Screwed either way, he decided to go for broke.

"OK, what's the point of a blouse that's so see-through you have to buy a special bra that doesn't look like a bra in order to wear the blouse?"

Like the swirl of melted ice cream and fudge he was stirring in the bottom of his plastic cup, he was also stirring the demons who inhabited the shadows just beyond the edges of her consciousness. He was blithely unaware, but she could already sense their emerging presence as a vague heaviness in her limbs.

"I don't have to justify anything to you," she said, steeling her voice.

"It's not a question of justification. It's simple logic, or better, the lack of it," he asserted.

"I can wear whatever I want!"

"It's not whether you can or can't anything. Of course you can wear what you want. The issue is why do you choose to wear what you do?" he countered.

She leaned forward over the table and spoke in a low, severe tone, "You're just feeling threatened and want to control me."

"You keep missing my point. Yes, I fully admit that I'm threatened by being crazy in love with you and the power that holds over me, and yes, I'm freaked too about the chances of you one day deciding to kick my older ass curbside. Still, all that's irrelevant to what I'm trying to get at. I couldn't agree with you more about being able to wear absolutely whatever you want or go bare-ass for that matter. The point, however, is the world we live in simply doesn't work that way. There're too many bananas running around. When you dress the way you do, you run a very real risk of attracting the wrong kind of attention. You can end up making yourself a target," he implored.

"So what are you trying to say about the way I dress?" She snapped.

"Dead honest, I'm saying that sometimes you make yourself look...well... the word tart comes to mind."

At first, he was more stunned than her. Like the tide disappearing before the tsunami, there was an eternal moment in which the only thing he could hear was the rapidly increasing rate of his pulse. As her face flushed and eyes welled the stark reality of his vast idiocy flooded him with scalding regret. His stomach began a slow rolling somersault and somewhere inside his head a dissociated voice gasped, "You didn't really just say tart, did you?"

She shot up from the table and marched out of the restaurant. He collected the helmets, paid the waitress and slunk out to face the inevitable. She stood near the bike in the parking lot, back turned, arms folded. She pawed at the ground with the toe of her boot as might a beast before charging. When he got close enough she spun around and ripped her helmet from his hand.

"You fucking prick," she said in a snarl while shoving on the helmet. "I work hard to pay for my own place, my own car and my own way. I scrimp and save for months to buy the clothes and things I like, mostly second-hand for that matter. I'm as good as gold to you, and I take good care of the people at The House. I'm a responsible person goddamn it! If it makes me feel good to wear a see-through blouse or red lipstick or paint my nails fluorescent fucking orange I'll do whatever the fuck I want."

She was becoming more agitated by the second, virtually hissing.

He put his helmet on in resignation. He knew any further chance of rational discussion was hopeless. He was at the very least in for a tongue-lashing that would probably last most of the way home. He began to swing his leg over to mount the bike, only she intervened. Her intent was a face-to-face confrontation, but in her furor, she failed to compensate for her oversized headgear and inadvertently drove the top of her helmet into the bottom of his. Sharp enough to snap his head back, the collision caught him off guard. Years of football play had conditioned him to oppose helmeted aggression in kind. That learned reflex forced an immediate retaliatory head butt, the impact of which caused her to stumble backward against the bike. She being her though smashed right back at him so that they again stood face shield to face shield, eye to eye. He towered over her. Even so, she was up on her toes, chest out, defiant. She could see the sweaty faces now like barely discernable subliminal revelations. She could hear the faint nervous laughter and feel the hands tightening around her wrists and ankles. She could smell their breath!

"You bastard!" She seethed. "You're just like the rest!"

She was so enraged she spewed spittle with each word. It dribbled down the inside of her transparent shield. He knew there was no dealing with her when she went off like this. Exasperated, he began to raise his arms in a gesture of surrender. Before he reached shoulder height though, she threw up her arms defensively and cringed. That pretty much did it for him.

"What... the... fuck! You think I'm about to pop you. You think that! Un-fucking-believable! Spoiler! I am not Travis, your personal rib cracker, or any of that other fuckin' human sludge you've managed to fill your life with. You expect to get smacked 'cuz it's the only friggin' thing you know. For Christ's sake, I'm the one who actually loves your crazy ass. I might be a whole lot better off if I didn't, but I goddamn do!"

He was close to out and out yelling. He looked around furtively to see if anyone might be privy to their little melodrama. To his relief, there was no one else in the lot. Turning back to her he saw the streaming tears. She didn't look down or away. She just kept gushing, "...staring at that far horizon..." as though he weren't there at all. Eventually, she put her hand out and touched her fingertips to his chest as if bewildered or exhausted. He wanted to gather her up in his arms and hold her, only he knew she wasn't really with him. He'd seen this before. It was better to simply leave her be.

He mounted the bike and fired it up. "Come on," he said.

She crumbled onto the back seat. Hanging her forearms from his shoulders she cradled her helmeted head between them. He took the long way home, riding the back roads. Where she went, was anybody's guess.

https://youtu.be/b_EkqtPMr18