Husband and I were in car, on the way to see the film Looper. “Watch out for that guy,” I said.
“I saw him,” he said, turning onto the main road.
We’ve been married 27 years. Driving is a we-effort. “He came up on that light so fast, I didn’t think he was going to stop.”
Husband drove. After a block he said, “You know, I saw the worst driver last week.”
“He didn’t stop for any of the stop signs. Just rolled right through them.” Husband used his hand to give me visual. “Blew right through all the red lights, too.”
I shook my head, the way women do when they want to show mild interest. Then I broke his contemplation of the Most Terrible Driver in The World by observing, “Les Miserables is coming out this year. I can’t wait to see it.”
Dead silence until the next red light. “That’s a historical thing, right?”
“Yup. A musical.”
I gave him the look. “Don’t even try. We’re going to Les Miserables.”
Husband sucked in a long, breath then released it in an equally long sigh. “You know what else that driver did? He filled in two of his letters on his licence plate with a magic marker. That’s illegal. He must be trying to get around the fees on the 407.”
“Don’t even try to squirm. You owe me for On Bak.”
The corners of his mouth pulled down as if I’d handed him a lemon and asked him to bite down. “It’s a musical,” he said in an aggrieved tone. “With. Costumes.”
We passed a car and he changed lanes.
“Bear?” I asked softly. “How’d you keep up with the Most Terrible Driver in the World?”
Dear husband’s expression went curiously blank. Then he said, “Les Miserable, huh?”
He released another heavy sigh. “Why do you think they call it Miserable?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll let you can sleep through it.”