“Will you just quit fixing things? Goddamn it, I’m a grown woman. I can do things myself. If I want your help, I’ll ask for it.”

I don’t recall the details of what set her off. I’m the type of man who, when he sees something that needs to be done, he does it. Also, I was raised in the old Southern traditions of gentlemanly behavior. We’d already gone through the “I can open my own doors” phase where, after I’d quit doing that, she began missing it and I resumed behaving in accordance with my childhood training. This was different, though. I did something mechanical for her without telling her I was going to do it, and she took it as me thinking she wasn’t capable of doing it herself.

“OK, suit yourself. From now on, I will not do anything for you without your express request.”

That was a couple of months ago and I’d stuck to my promise, although I still opened doors for her. It was Halloween night, and we’d been to her office party dressed in 1960s fashion. Me in colorful bellbottom slacks with a paisley, large-collared polyester shirt. She was in a blouse that almost matched my shirt, tight miniskirt, and knee-high white boots. The miniskirt was a stretch for her usually inhibited self and it took considerable encouragement from me to get her to wear it.

Becky had a fine body. She was short, about 5’ 4”, but with great 36 C breasts, narrow waist, flaring hips, and shapely legs. The dress showed those off well. The blouse was a bit tight and tended to gap open between buttonholes giving an occasional glimpse of boob flesh. Fucking sexy as hell. I was looking forward to getting home and fucking her in the miniskirt.

As the party was ending, we weren’t ready to go home yet. “I remember you telling me about a restaurant you used to go to and people-watch on special nights. Is it still around,” she asked.

“Yes, the Denny’s on Camelback and 7th Street. You want to go?”

“I’m not tired and we don’t have to work tomorrow. You can show me the sideshow you’ve talked about,” she replied. There were several dive bars around that restaurant and on nights like New Year’s Eve and Halloween there were some very interesting patrons at Denny’s after the bars had closed. I’d take the counter stool next to the cash register where I could watch everyone coming and going.

We drove over to the place and luckily parked in the last space in their lot. It was packed, mostly with singles and couples. There was one corner table with a curved bench meant for four or more, but it was the only space available, so we took it. As we waited, we looked around at the sights. So many people, most of them drunk, high, tripping, or some combination, and only a few not in some sort of costume. Several women and a few men were dressed quite revealingly. One statuesque woman was dressed in a fishnet body suit with three small, strategically placed black cloth pieces which served more to enhance what was behind them rather than hiding.

Right after our food arrived, the waitress came over and told us that there was a couple who had been waiting for some time, and they had said they’d be willing to join us if we were okay with it. They looked pretty normal, about our ages, he was in a ‘20s gangster pinstripe suit, she was dressed as a flapper, but they didn’t seem freaky. I looked at Becky, not wanting to overstep whatever boundary she might be feeling at the moment. You could have knocked me over with a feather when she said to let them join. Very un-Becky-like.