“Yeah, I was married to one of those once.” Maggie slid another beer across the counter to Pete.
“No way!” Pete said. “When was that?”
“Oh, that was back before I got into rehab, got clean,” Maggie said. “I was a real mess in those days.”
“Is that how you hooked up with a New Ager?” asked Pete, taking his first sip of the stout.
“Yeah,” Maggie said, wiping up some spilled lemon juice. “Back then, I was a total sucker for anything in tight pants. Met him in a frou-frou grocery store, he smiled at me, and that was all she wrote.”
“How long did it last?” Pete reached for the bar nuts, not giving a shit that they probably were covered with other peoples’ spit.
“Only about 6 months,” said Maggie. “I was willing to go along with the crystals, the chanting, the incense, the past life regressions, all of it. But when he started to get into dream analysis, things just went into the shitter. I mean, we couldn’t ever make plans for in the morning because he’d have to write down his dreams into this little journal thing, and that could take anywhere from 5 minutes to an hour and a half. The straw that broke the camel was the day my little sister got married. We were supposed to be there early so I could practice my readings, but Mr. New Age flat-out refused to open his eyes until he could remember every part of the dream. So I walked out and just kept walking, you know?”
“I hear you,” said Pete, raising his glass. “Here’s to this Age. We don’t need a new one.”