“I’ve fucking had it!”  Kathy throws her arms in the air and starts in before she even says hello.

Ranting is actually my favorite thing about Kathy.  Once she gets going, there is no stopping her.  It doesn’t matter what the topic might be though I’ve never heard her go on about politics.  But she’ll rant about everything else, from the organization of the fruit in the produce section at the supermarket to the amount of space someone leaves between their parked car and a stop sign.

Today’s rant: tipping.

 “With what?” I stand up briefly to give her a welcoming hug before I sit back down and sip at my coffee, trying to hide my smile.  To an outside observer, it might appear that Kathy is about to strangle the most convenient person available, but I know she’s harmless.

Mostly.

“What the hell is up with tipping anyway?”

“Tipping?  What about it?”

“It’s out of control.”  Kathy shoves her carry-on luggage against the side of the table, tosses her purse and coat in the booth, and then slides in next to the pile.

We haven’t seen each other for over a year, but that has never mattered with us.  As soon as we are together again, it’s as if we had spent the last few days in each other’s constant company.  It’s just how we are, and there is no need for pleasant “How are you?” or “Great to see you again” jabber.

“We are never coming here again.”  Kathy places her elbows on the table and reaches toward me with her pinky finger extended.  I grasp it with mine though I have no idea why we’re pinky-swearing over a restaurant.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know what to do about the tip.”

“I paid in cash,” I tell her.  “I was going to just leave a tip on the table.”

Deklan had left me a thousand dollars in cash on the kitchen counter before he left, telling me to treat myself to some birthday shopping.  I had told him it was an insane amount of money, but he just shrugged, suggested jewelry, and promised to bring me something back from the Windy City.

“I paid by credit card,” Kathy says.  “It makes all the expense reporting easier when I get back, but that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“Tipping is supposed to be for your server, right?  Not the owner or the guy who rings up the bill or whatever.  Tip the server for really good service.  I’m great with that.  But if I’m paying the bill up front, before I even get my food, what the hell am I supposed to tip?  Five percent?  Ten?  The default comes up at eighteen when you swipe your card.  Cheeky bastards.”

She’s on a roll and not about to stop now.

“When I bought some peanuts on the plane—and don’t even get me started on buying plane peanuts—it came up asking what percentage I wanted to tip.  Since when do you tip a flight attendant?  Or does the attendant hand it over to the pilot?  If the pilot crashes the plane and I live, can I get my tip back?  Does the dude who loads the plane up with fuel get a cut?  Where does it end?”

I tilt my head to one side and consider what she’s saying.  I haven’t flown recently, and I think she’s got a pretty good point.  Working at the coffee shop isn’t something I do for money, so I’ve never paid much attention to the tips.

“I always thought tipping was made up for mom and pop restaurants where the kids were the servers,” I say.  “The parents couldn’t afford to pay their kids, so the customers did instead.”

“Where did you hear that?”  Kathy narrows her eyes at me.

“I don’t know if I heard it anywhere,” I say with a shrug.  “It’s just what I’ve always thought.”

“It kinda makes sense,” Kathy says with a nod.  “I’ll check.”

On her phone, Kathy starts to google the origin of tipping but then is distracted by her food being placed in front of her.  The guy who brings it doesn’t say a word, and when Kathy asks him where her drink is, he points out a self-service beverage dispenser.

“You see what I mean?  I want my damn tip back.”  She gets up from the table to retrieve her drink, and I try to keep my giggles in check.

When she returns with her iced tea, she’s still at it.

“And when did tipping become something everyone gets just for doing their jobs?  I tip the hairdresser, the massage therapist, and now the flight attendants.  I mean, who do I need to start tipping next?  My gynecologist?  Oh wow, your hands are nice and warm today!  And the way you handle that speculum!  I’m impressed!  Here’s an extra twenty bucks!”

I can’t help it—I laugh out loud this time.

“Isn’t your gynecologist also your boss?”

“Irrelevant.  Besides, I work for the clinic, not the doctor herself though she is my supervisor.  You’re getting me off topic!”

“Tipping…warm speculums…I’m keeping up!”

“I told you about the peanuts, right?”

“Yep.”

It’s refreshing to be with Kathy.  I’m not anxious, waiting to say or do something wrong.  Even when it’s just me and Deklan, I sometimes still feel a little on edge.  Everything is still so new, and it’s hard to have a conversation with a man who won’t talk about his work.

I feel like myself, and I’m completely relaxed for the first time since the marriage.

“Let’s go to the hotel,” Kath says as she finishes up her food.  “There has to be a bar at the hotel.”

“It’s barely noon.”

“Then we shouldn’t have to deal with a crowd!”

“True.”

We have to bus our own table, which sends Kathy on another tipping rant that lasts for the entire ride to the hotel.  Once we get there and check in, we dump our stuff in the room and head straight for the far end of the bar.

“I’ll need some ID,” the bartender says.

Shit.

“Um…”  I look over at Kathy, not sure what I should do, but she’s already digging in her own purse.  Then a thought occurs to me, and I quickly reach for my wallet.  Next to my real driver’s license is the license Deklan used that time he took me to the hospital—the one with the name Kera Malone on it.  It has my birthday as three months earlier than it is.  “Here you go.”

The bartender gives the ID half a glance before handing it back to me.

“What would you ladies like this afternoon?”

Kathy looks at me sideways but doesn’t say anything until after the bartender takes our orders.

“Let me see that.”  She grabs the license from me and snickers.  “You with a fake ID.  Who woulda thunk it?”

“Hush, you!”  I grab the ID out of her hand and shove it back in my wallet.  “It’s for emergencies.”

“Vodka is an emergency.”  Kathy nods seriously.

The bartender brings us our drinks, and we clink them together.  Being underage and rather sheltered, I’ve rarely had any alcoholic drinks, and by the time we are halfway through the second vodka-cranberry, I’m already feeling it.

“So, you don’t even know what he’s doing on this trip to Chicago?”  Kathy drains her glass and orders another one.

“No clue,” I say.  “He doesn’t tell me anything.  I’m just glad he left me the car, or I would have been looking for an Uber to come meet you.”

“I’m sorry I don’t get to meet him,” Kathy says.  “I was kinda looking forward to that.  Then again, a girls’ weekend is better.  Now, show me how big his dick is with your hands.”

“No!”  I laugh and feel my face getting warm.  “It’s big enough.”

“But he’s tall, right?”

“About six foot four.”

“So, is it proportional?”

“Kathy!  I am not talking about my husband’s cock!”

“Yeah, you will.”  Kathy raises her hand and beckons the bartender.  “My friend here needs more alcohol.  I need her to give me some information regarding her husband’s penis, and she is thus far refusing my inquiries.”

The bartender grins and hands me another drink.

“I’m not even done with this one!”

“Catch up.”  Kathy leans back in against the barstool and grins.  “I need deets.”

I shake my head, finish my second drink, and move on to the third.  I need to get her ranting about something so she’ll forget about Deklan’s dick.

“How was the flight?” I ask.

“Bumpy.”  Kathy rolls her eyes.  “And the airport—ugh!  What is it Douglas Adams said?  Airports are ugly.”

“Profound.”  I down the rest of my drink and nibble at the basket of pretzels on the bar.

“He said they were really ugly.”

“Uh huh.”  I roll my eyes.

“Context!”  Kathy slams the palm of her hand on the bar.  “You’re just going to have to read the book.”

“Which book?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Ugh!”

We both laugh, and Kathy downs the rest of her drink and practically inhales a basket of pretzels sitting on the bar.

“Any screaming babies?”

“Of course,” she says.  “One of them was in the seat across from me.  Honestly, screaming babies don’t bother me.  I don’t have to deal with them, and I kinda feel sorry for the parents.  Teenagers on a plane—they are the really obnoxious ones.  They’re always leaning over the aisles, sprawling out in their seats, and fucking around with the window shades.  The chick in front of me, who was airsick before we even took off—she was all kinds of fun.”

I try to pace myself on the drinks.  I can’t keep up with Kathy—she has obviously had a lot of practice since I last saw her.  I hoard the pretzels and, when the time comes, order something carb-filled for dinner.

We laugh.  We cry a bit.  We hug a lot.  We drink more.  At the end of the evening, we have to hold each other up as we get off the elevator, laughing and stumbling our way down the hall.  It takes both of us to use the simple keycard to open the door, and we practically fall into the room.

“I miss you so much,” I say as I fall onto the bed.

“Aww, I miss you too!”  Kathy flops down on the other side, rolls over and hugs me.  “I wish I was a lesbian so I could show you how much I love you.”

I laugh.  The room is spinning, so I close my eyes.  Kathy pokes my shoulder.

“Kera?”

“Hmm?”

“How big is it?”

I hold my hands up, eyes still closed.

“Holy shit.  That’s big!”

“It’s sooo big!”

The fits of giggles continue until we both fall asleep.