Mad About You

demeanor.
    "She'll be fine," Bailey said to the man, then lowered his voice. "She's pregnant."
    Virginia choked, and Bailey massaged her back. "Are you okay, sweetheart? Do you need a drink of water?"
    "No," she gasped, "just some fresh air."
    They hurried downstairs and out the door. The valet recognized them, and sprinted off to collect their car.
    Once in the car, they looked at each other and started laughing.
    He captured her gaze and shook his head slowly. "What on earth made you think of Blackey's?"
    She shrugged, raising her hands. "I don't know, it just came to me that we were there getting ready to buy an overpriced meal when we could be having a good time at Blackey's."
    He frowned slightly. "I wanted to take you to a nice place, Ginny. I can afford more than Blackey's now."
    It hadn't occurred to her that she might have accidentally bruised his ego. She touched his arm. "I know you can afford more than Blackey's now, Bailey, but that's the point—we can go wherever we want, and tonight I want to go to Blackey's."
    He smiled, and reached up to twine her fingers with his. "Then Blackey's it is."

    * * *

    Memories assailed Bailey as soon as the door opened to admit them in a rush of air. The fact that the word "authentic" was misspelled on the sign in the window of Blackey's Authentic Pit Barbecue was a customer's first signal to lower their expectations about the interior. But what Blackey's lacked in decor, it made up for in atmosphere.
    Blues music blared from cheap stereo speakers hung haphazardly on the walls. Ceiling fans whirred frantically overhead in a failing attempt to circulate the smoky, greasy air. Long, scarred wooden tables butted up to each other cafeteria-style in three strips across the square, squatty room. Dozens of chairs, each different, lined the edges of the tables, about half of them full.
    He noted most of the diners looked college-aged, which seemed logical since Blackey's sat in a rundown part of town only a few blocks from the campus of Ohio State University. He might have balked at bringing the Packard there had it not been for a secure parking garage nearby, and had he not been so eager to please Ginny.
    Along with a lot of other students, he and Ginny had spent many mornings there studying, which hadn't bothered the owner since mornings were slow anyway. When he'd graduated, he'd met Ginny there regularly for lunch. After she’d withdrawn from school and they married, they occasionally splurged and came for dinner.
    He turned to look at Ginny, her cheeks flushed and full, her figure still as lithe as a coed's. Their rendezvous at Blackey's seemed like a lifetime ago… and only yesterday.
    "Grab you a chair," a waitress yelled as she passed, laden with two huge trays of food.
    They claimed two chairs side by side in as secluded a spot as they could find. The menus were stacked in irregular little piles up and down the tables, more often than not splattered with barbecue sauce. He chose two of the cleanest-looking and handed one to Ginny.
    She scanned the food items, her eyes shining. "It's the same menu," she said. "I'll have my usual—"
    "Number seven," he supplied. "With dipping sauce on the side."
    She grinned. "You remember."
    "Sure I do. And I'll have—"
    "Number twelve, extra hot sauce, extra napkins."
    This time a grin tickled his lips. "Right." Then he glanced down at his snowy shirt. "I might need a bib too."
    "What'll it be?" yelled the waitress, one hip cocked. They placed their food orders and requested bottles of good beer, their one deviation from the old days when they drank the cheapest draught.
    The brews were delivered right away, the food, they knew, would take a bit longer. Ginny lifted her bottle in the air. "To Blackey's."
    Buoyed by her good mood, he clinked his bottle against hers. "To Blackey's."
    After a long drink, Bailey settled back, draping his arm around the back of Ginny's chair. Graffiti was encouraged at Blackey's, every customer could write their name and any bits of wisdom they could find room for on the cracked plaster walls. "Do you remember where we wrote our names?" he asked her.
    Squinting, she looked around the room as she worked her mouth in concentration. Suddenly she brightened. "Over there, by the far window."
    He nodded. "Think they're still there?"
    She shrugged and grabbed her beer bottle. "Let's see."
    Bailey followed her, feeling as if he were walking on eggshells. Which memories to touch on, which to avoid? For some