A Boy (Spanish) and a Girl (Canadian)

We met our boss, David McConnell, in downtown Torremolinos for wine one night. When we arrived we found him ensconced at a table with a nubile Canadian girl celebrating her 18th birthday. Our friend Ina Robinson once said that all women either had bosoms or bazooms. This bazoomy girl from Canada wasn’t sure what was going to happen on her 18th birthday, but she was sure it was going to be wonderful.

Our own children were not much younger than this girl and Joanne was heard to call McConnell “cradle robber” under her breath. He retorted, “Easy, ‘Mom.’” And to be perfectly honest, we didn’t know what plans McConnell may have had for the evening, but they were complicated by the presence of a third party, a young Spanish male dressed most stylishly. He wore his shirt open to the navel. A gold colored medallion dangled from his neck by a gold colored chain. We knew he was no spy because there was no room in his pants for even a microdot let alone a secret message or stolen state paper.

Joanne took exception to the boy’s style, or lack thereof. If you’re going to be a sophisticated seducer, you should have more than two squiggly little chest hairs. She decided that if he was going to run with the big dogs then he should learn to drink like them as well.

She bought him a wine. And another. And another. We spelled each other so we didn’t have to match him drink for drink. He soon began to make trips to the men’s room, from which he returned with water dripping from his face, hoping a cold splash would reduce dizziness. It doesn’t. I speak from experience here. He frantically suggested we adjourn to a discoteca magnifica where we could dance. We wouldn’t hear of it. By Jove, this wine is splendid. Let’s have some more, shall we?

The young Spaniard was game but eventually lurched home. He probably had a head as big as a soccer field the next morning, but maybe he learned something. I hope he learned that if intended to run with the big dogs he should button up his shirt. Or at least paste on some phony chest hairs.

We went home shortly after the Spaniard’s departure. Never did find out what happened with McConnell and the girl. None of our business.