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On a warm autumn evening in a city west of the Rockies, an
ordinary guy, married, father of two, a teacher in a Christian
Sunday school, went out after a weekday evening meeting at his
church, with another teacher, a woman not his wife. In separate
cars they drove to The Hungry Lion for “coffee and dessert,”
though at the meeting refreshments had been served.
The woman not his wife was ordinary, too, some might say—plump, pleasant,
and pretty, very married, a mother, a nursing school professor by profession.
This excursion took place when cell phones were not yet everywhere; the man
had called his wife from the church office to tell her “Our meeting is running late.”
In the spacious parking lot of the coffee shop they parked side-by-side. The man
stood by while the woman slung the strap of a large leather purse over her left
shoulder and then tugged from the back seat of her Toyota sedan a bright-pink
canvas gym bag, which, with two hands, she held out to him. “Do you mind
carrying this? It’s heavy.” she said. “My doors don’t lock, and I can’t leave this
in the car. My friend let me borrow her pistol. She’s teaching me to shoot.”
The man unzipped the bag, glimpsed a holstered Smith & Wesson and a box of
ammunition, and slid the zipper closed. The two went inside The Hungry Lion.
Sitting in a corner booth, with the pink bag between them on the upholstered vinyl
seat, the man opened his tri-fold menu and murmured in an ordinary way. “I never felt
so manly carrying a duffle bag such as this,” he said. “But as virile as I may feel, you
don’t have to worry that I’ll touch your thigh if I put my hand below the table top.”
♦
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