Marge and Frank had been married for 43 years. Not happily, not unhappily—just consistently irritated by each other’s existence. Every Thursday night, they took their regular booth at The Grumpy Old Men’s Pub, a local dive where the only thing older than the whiskey was the clientele.
Frank scanned the menu and grumbled, “Why do they call it Happy Hour? Nothing in this room has smiled since Nixon resigned.”
Marge took a sip of her chardonnay. “Speak for yourself. I cracked a grin when the waitress spilled a tray on that guy vaping indoors.”
For Marge and Frank, the real entertainment was the sport of passive eavesdropping. At the bar sat Walt, who looked like he’d lost a fight with a leaf blower, and his friend Gene.
Walt sighed dramatically into his beer. “I was such an unwanted child, Gene. My mother actually left me before I was born.”
Frank didn’t miss a beat from his booth. “What’d she do, Frank? File for emotional divorce from the womb?”
“You laugh,” Walt muttered, turning around. “But my birth certificate literally has a sticky note attached to it that says ‘Oops.'”
Not to be outdone, Frank turned to Marge. “And I thought my childhood was rough. My parents bought me a sandbox… with a landmine theme.”
Marge chuckled. “Well, that certainly explains your intense fear of cats and confetti.”
Just then, their sarcastic waitress arrived and dropped a platter of food on their table. “Here are your ‘Discount Wings,’ folks. They come with extra salt—just like all of you.”
Walt shook his head. “This pub is the only reason I haven’t written a memoir called Disappointments & Dads.”
Marge laughed, raising her glass to Frank. “To bitterness, belly laughs, and terrible bar food.”
Frank smiled, clinking his glass against hers.
“And here’s to us, honey… the only couple who still finds each other annoying enough to stay interesting.”
