“Hi, Steve. It’s Donna. If you have no plans for Thanksgiving, John and I would love to have you join us tomorrow. It will just be the three of us. Both our families have other plans this year. You don’t have to bring anything but you and your appetite.”

“Sure, Donna. I’d love to. I have what is probably an amazing pecan pie I’ll bring if that’s okay. It’s way too much for me alone, but I got it to support a sweet little bakery, and it was made by someone who is a wonderful cook.”

She said that it would be great, gave me the time and her address and we hung up. Well, that was a surprise, the first of many I was to find out. Donna is a life coach steeped in woo-woo. I first noticed her (her amazing rack, actually) at a psychic fair, introduced myself, and discussed her business throughout the afternoon between folks stopping at her booth. In the interim years, she had added Reiki to her repertoire and offered me some free sessions as part of her final practicum. One of those sessions had led to her giving me a handjob because, as she put it, I needed some “human touch.” I had expressed how I would enjoy some female intimacy but disliked one-night stands and had seen too many friends-with-benefits situations go bad. She offered herself as a solution since we were friends and she was happily married. However, she received her Reiki certificate and our relationship never progressed to anything more. Now, here we were.

John and Donna met late in life after each had been in some rather undesirable relationships. From what Donna said, they were perfect for each other, which I thought odd since she was so heavy into spiritual metaphysics, and he had been an Evangelical preacher turned CPA. The few times I’d seen them together, they appeared to be very happy together.

They ate later than most folks on Thanksgiving, around 5-ish so I arrived about 4:30. It wasn’t an elaborate spread like most folks, either. All the usual traditional dishes, but not a huge amount of any. No fancy centerpieces and we ate with the daily dinnerware; paper towels folded for napkins. I loved it. No pretense, minimal waste, just friends enjoying some time and good food together. Well, not entirely.

Donna met me at the door. She was dressed in jeans and a button-up blouse that wasn’t buttoned up all the way. I could see the swell of her breasts resting in her bra and was reminded of the cleavage I saw at the psychic fair that originally attracted me to her. Over the almost decade I’d known her, they had become somewhat smaller it appeared, but they still looked quite fuckable to me. She took the pie to the kitchen and told me to join John in the living room. There was something about the look on her face and tone in her voice that struck me as odd. When I got to the living room I learned why. John was drunk as a skunk. I was shocked. I knew Donna would only have a glass or two of wine, and that was to be social. I had no idea John, old-school preacher, liked beer so much. He met me with a clumsy hug (Jesus Christ, dude, don’t breathe so close to me) and we settled down, him in his recliner, me on the couch. Some football pre-game was on the TV. I have no interest in football, but John was into it. We launched into a rather half-assed conversation about the teams, him doing all the talking, me making gestures and sounds I thought would go along with what he was saying.

Thank God dinner came soon. They had a bit of a spat before it. John wanted to eat in front of the TV, Donna was having none of that. Donna won, but through the whole meal John kept watching the TV through the passage into the living room. She insisted on it being muted, though, so she and I were able to converse with John mostly oblivious. Cracks in Paradise, I was seeing. I wondered if those cracks had enabled her to give me the handjobs. The food was delicious, and I had to seriously rein myself in to keep from overeating more than I did. Soon as it was over, John grabbed yet another beer (he had two during dinner) and bolted for the TV. I helped Donna haul everything into the kitchen where she insisted that I pack up whatever I wanted to take home for leftovers. We unloaded the cleaned cooking utensils from the dishwasher, and I rinsed the dinnerware while she loaded it all into the dishwasher the way she liked. Neither of us said much throughout these processes beyond what was necessary to get the jobs done. The game blaring from the TV was a bit annoying, I thought. I mentally shook my head; this was not what I’d expected.

All the chores done, hands washed and dried, Donna glanced toward the living room and said, “I’m sensing you don’t want to hang around.” She placed a hand on my arm, “That’s okay. I don’t blame you. I’m really grateful you came. It was nice having someone sane and sober to eat with.” Hmmm, those cracks widened. Then she glanced in again and frowned slightly. “Shit,” she muttered. Heading quickly into the living room, I followed, curious. John was stretched out on the couch. The beer can in his hand had drained out onto the carpet and he was dead to the world. Donna threw up her hands in frustration, then placed them on her hips. “Well, he’s gone for the night. I’ll be right back.” She left for a moment and returned with an afghan which she covered him with, and a towel which she used to sop up as much of the beer from the carpet as she could.