Disclaimer: This is a second-hand tale brought home from the gym by my favorite treadmiller, my husband, Larry. I’ve done my best to recount every breathless detail, using the first person to remain faithful to what my eidetic memory remembers. Read on –
‘Twas the day before Christmas, and the gym was packed. A thirty-something dude was sweating his best alongside me, attempting to shed those extra holiday pounds.
Me, too, I thought. But I kept my head in my book, not eager to engage.
Suddenly, a shapely brunette dressed in a casual jacket and jeans rushed up to him and said, “Mom and I are leaving for Europe tomorrow, and I can’t find my passport. I think it’s in your safety deposit box. I need you to go get it.”
“Now?” said the dude, incredulous at the invasion. “I come to the gym to work out the angst of my hectic schedule, and you bring me this mess to solve?!”
“Well, you could go in an hour, I suppose. But I’m packing now.”
“But the bank is in Huntington Beach, and I’m not headed that way. I have stuff to do in South County, I thought you cleared the box of all your stuff when the divorce was final.”
“No, Garrett, you never gave me the key. I’m sure that my passport is in the safety deposit box. It’s only been used once, for our honeymoon trip.”
“Pouting about the past won’t help your case, Sara. There’s no way I can go today. My boss expects me to put in a half-day.”
With that, the troubled couple became aware of my presence and moved away so my eavesdropping was curtailed. But, my imagination has already surmised a solid reason for their divorce…
What do you think happened next, writer readers? Would you tell her, “Bah, humbug,” or barter her passport for a ____?
Will he or she or both have a happy ending? (wink-wink)
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