Fleetwood Mac-Part III of Fritz Series

Tainted Love

May 1981 Paris, France (Stevie's Birthday)

Bathtub full of champagne. Check.

Chocolate covered strawberries. Check.

Diamonds big enough to choke a horse. Check.

Dinner reservations at Chez Mirage (Irony noted). Check.

And last but not least, Lindsey in a monkey suit. Staring at myself in the mirror I grumble in irritation. I hate these damn things, but Stevie thinks I look adorable in them so I wear it. It's just after seven o'clock so about one a.m. in the States...midnight in California. Robin is still up, Sara probably is too it's a Saturday and she's allowed to stay awake to watch the late movie on Saturday nights. The kids already called to talk to Stevie and wish her a happy birthday, we have a show tomorrow and Ken's got something planned for the audience.

For tonight though, she belongs to me. And I intend to wine and dine her until we're both too tipsy to stand, afterwards...my hair is still fluffy and sprayed full of chemicals from our show last night. My face is clean shaven, even my so-called "designer stubble" has been shaved. I smell perfume and lotion from the bathroom, no fewer than ten outfits are laid out on the bed. Fifteen pairs of shoes, ten shawls, tons of accessories, make up, and a plethora of other girly things that I can't identify. This reminds me of Stevie's bedroom at her parent's house. Organized chaos that only she understands. My room was typically just chaos until my mom cleaned up after me.

I still remember the day she found my grass the first time. She thought it was Chinese herbs, and I didn't dissuade her of that notion. It wasn't until Greg piped up in his typical professorial fashion and told her and my father "Actually, that's Cannabis" that I got chewed out by both of my parents. Probably the top ten yelling matches I've ever gotten into with anyone, and it ended with me getting my way. Episodes like that from my life make me wonder just how bad I used to be to live with.

Flipping open the black velvet box in my hand I stare down at Stevie's gift, it's a bracelet. We've been married for twelve years, each stone setting has a different birthstone in it. Surrounded by diamonds of course, because beneath her hippie exterior Stevie is as in love with diamonds as Mae West. Seeking the opinion of another female I had Sara examine my gift before I packed it away in my suitcase. With her hair in pigtails and her small spatter of freckles on the bridge of her nose my daughter declared it to be a perfect gift.

So many years ago I'd have been nervous to the point of nausea at buying Stevie anything. Would she like it? Would I say everything right? Giving her my ring had been more about telling other guys to back off then it was to commemorate anything special. The first real gift I ever gave her, her song, was note by note from my heart. I can still play it to this day blindfolded, in the dark, and hanging upside down. Closing the lid I slide the long slender box into my hip pocket giving myself one last grin in the mirror "You're getting sappy and romantic in your old age Buck". Young me would have rolled his eyes at such grand gestures, satisfied with simply having Stevie to myself for the evening.

Now more than ever I feel the urge to protect what we have as a couple. Divorce is so high among people our age and within our peer group, I wouldn't know what to do to find another woman. I wouldn't have the strength or the energy. Likely not even the desire. For me Stevie is it, if I can't make it work with her I don't want it to work with anyone else. Hands and arms wrap around my waist the gentle weight of Stevie's body pressing against me.

"Whatcha thinking about?"

"Intergalactic travel"

"Hmmm, deep thoughts. You been watching PBS again?"