Scots on the Rocks

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Judith McMonigle Flynn put a fifty-dollar bill on the table, glared at her husband, Joe, and said, “I’ll take that bet.”

“Sucker,” said Joe, the gold flecks dancing in his green eyes. “Since when has your mother ever called me by name? It’ll be ‘Knucklehead’ or ‘Lunkhead’ or ‘Dumbbell’ before she ever refers to me as Joe. We’ve been married almost fourteen years. If you can remember when she ever used my real name, I’ll give you fifty bucks right now.”

“I can’t. But,” Judith went on, crossing her arms and looking mulish, “Mother’s mellowing. Last night she said your barbecued spareribs were delicious.”

Joe chuckled. “They came from Nicky Napoli’s rib joint.”

“Mother didn’t realize that,” Judith countered.

Joe pocketed his fifty-dollar bill. “Why bet against each other with our own money? Change the stakes. Who gets to choose our next vacation?”

Judith was still glaring at Joe. “Vacation? What’s a vacation?”

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