Took my favorite seat at the bar, close to the table where the older-middle-aged-guys sit. The writer walked up as I sat down, a big guy with a big voice and a belly grown from years of beer and fajitas.
The musician, a lean man whose faded blue shirt matched his eyes, asked how the weekend went.
"I've been disenchanted. They went camping at Enchanted Rock without me."
"You didn't want to go?"
"First, I gotta tell you, I HATE camping. Hate everything about it--bugs, heat, cold, needing a flashlight in the middle of the night to find a place to take a leak." He was silent for a moment. "But when Becky asked me if I wanted to go, I couldn't tell her that."
"Well, when I first met her and she talked about camping, she kind of hinted there was tent-sex. So I told her, hell yes, I LOVED camping. I'd be happy to go raise a pole for her tent."
He paused. "So I couldn't tell her."
He blew out a breath. "I'm such a dumbass. What I told her was," his voice rose to an earnest schoolteacher tone, "I couldn't possibly go camping with her because I didn't have any equipment now. I had it in my twenties; tent, stove, sleeping bag, the works. But I lost it in one of the divorces and this isn't a good time to buy more."
"By the time I finished, she was holding my hand and her eyes were sparkling. She had this big smile and she said, 'Oh, don't worry about that, I have everything you need.' And she wasn't kidding. She took me over to her garage. Every piece of goddamn equipment known to man. Including four sizes of tents, from a two-man to one big enough for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir."
By then I was suppressing a giggle.
I'm betting Becky had a feeling for the truth of his camping. She probably laughed like crazy after he left her garage. Either way, what do you think his chances of tent sex are now?