“Food poisoning”

While the wives are getting ready to go out, you brew your brother some tea. He doesn’t notice the extra ingredient you added.

Halfway to the restaurant he’s complaining about stomach aches. When we park he says he needs to use the bathroom, but it’s gonna be bad. He can’t use a public restroom.

His wife whines that we just got out of the house. You broker a compromise: my wife doesn't really like going out; you suggest she drive your brother back home. She can come pick you up after dinner.

Your wife actually thanks you for an excuse to go back home. She’s hates doing anything fun.

You just hope your wife gets your brother home before he shits all over your car. You don’t care that much. You’re with his wife who has a natural 38D rack resting in a see-thru bra underneath her clothes. It’s all you can think about.

You offer your elbow and you walk down the riverfront to the restaurant. Your reservations aren’t for a bit. You walk past a bar that has live music, two men with a guitar and saxophone.

You suggest, “Wanna to get a drink?”

She hesitates, unsure if I’m testing her, “Uh sure. You can get me an unsweet tea.”

You laugh, “I was thinking more like shots.”

Her eyes widen and her jaw drops. “No way? Are you joking? You have to be joking. No one in your family drinks.”

You shrug, “I’m the bad boy of the family.”

You tell yourself that line isn’t as lame as it sounded coming out of your mouth.

She looks at you curiously deciding if you’re bullshitting. “You really drink?”

“Yeah. I’ll prove it to you.”

You walk to the bar. Act like you’ve been there before. You play it cool. “What do you like?”

Perfect let her pick.

She says to the bartender, “Can we get two double shots of 1492 with some slices of lime? Make sure they’re really chilled.”

You have no clue what she ordered. She sees the look on your face. She covers her mouth in embarrassment, “Oh my god! Do you not like tequila? I’m so sorry, but don’t worry this is really smooth. You won’t even notice.”

“It’s okay,” you lie. “I’m more of a scotch guy, but I’ll drink tequila for a pretty girl like you.”

Now her face scrunches. Shit that line didn’t slide. You say, “At least no one will hit on you, because they’ll think we’re married.”

You hold up your wedding ring.

The shots come. You try not to act like a bitch when you take it. You try to copy exactly what she does.

After downing the two ounces of tequila, she orders to more. There’s already a redness to her cheeks. She smiles, “We have time right. We’ll be dead sober by the time we get back to your parents’ house.”

When the cats are away, the mice will play.

She looks back and watches the band play Eric Clapton’s ‘Old Love’. Then she absently says, “It doesn’t matter that this ring is on my finger. Guys wouldn’t hit on me anyway

“They would if they knew what body you had hidden under that dress,” you say before realizing it wasn’t just a thought in your head. Four ounces of tequila and you’re already loose lips drunk.

“What do you know about my body?” She turns to you.

You admit the truth, “Your husband was showing your honeymoon pictures and I saw one of you in a bikini.”

She huffs, “That rascal. He was suppose to delete that.”

The bartender comes back to us.

Your sister-in-law smiles deviously at you. You’re now her partner-in-crime in a conservative family. “One more?”