The Invisible Woman

Last year, Tim and I spent a weekend at a very nice, small inn/resort where the staff makes an effort to learn your name.  Or at least Tim's name.  Mine, not so much.

At first, I didn't notice that I wasn't there.  After all, Tim is the one who made the dinner reservations, selected the wine, paid for the meals.  He also likes his food prepared very simply, so he was always rearranging the menu items, which I'm sure made him stand out in the the staffs' minds.

"Welcome, Mr. Sinclair,"  they'd say as we sat down.  "What would you like?"

"What can we do for you Mr. Sinclair,"  they'd offer.  "Mr. Sinclair, can we get you anything else?"

It was kind of like being married to Norm on Cheers.  What was her name, Vera?

By the end of the weekend, I expected to hear them shout, "Tim!" when we entered a room, and have his drink ready before his bottom hit the chair. 

Gradually, I noticed that he got the big meet and greet, and I got.....nothing.  There was the hanging on his every word as though he was Einstein explaining relativity for dummies. There were the blank stares I encountered when I tried to alert them to the fact that there was a Mrs. Sinclair.  There was the subtle way the waiter stood with his back toward me when taking our orders.

Tim, naturally, was in complete denial, even as I transitioned from solid, to transparent to totally invisible.

The staff would rush up as we entered the lobby, concern etched into their faces.  "Mr. Sinclair, are you aware that there is some strange woman following you?"  they'd ask, casting dark looks my way.  "What can we do for you Mr. Sinclair?"  It only got worse as the weekend went on. 

"Is this woman bothering you, Mr. Sinclair?"  I could hear the unspoken question when I dared to sit at his table our final night there.  "Would you like us to call security?  We can have her removed.  No trouble at all.  Now, what would you like to eat, Mr. Sinclair?"

Umm.  Helloooo.  I'm his wife.  See the ring?  I would waggle my finger at them.  Sometimes it actually was my ring finger that I put up.

Finally though, the weekend was over, and Tim once again had to acknowledge that he had a wife.

A few months later, we had the opportunity to go back to the inn, this time with another couple who clearly thought my  stories were an exaggeration of the facts.  Until we got there.

"Welcome back, Mr. Sinclair," the woman at reception gushed as we checked in.

"Ahem,"  I cleared my throat.

"Be with you in a moment, ma'am.  Please step back until we finish with Mr. Sinclair, our favorite guest of all time, and the handsomest man on the planet."

Well, okay, maybe I exaggerate a little.  They didn't actually say that he was handsome.

But seriously, as skeptical as they were at first, eventually, our friends began to realize that I had been telling the truth.  And worse, my disease was contagious.  They were becoming invisible too.

"Afternoon, Mr. Sinclair," the staff greeted the four of us as we headed out for a walk.

I arched my brow at our friends.  "See?"  I silently asked.

They dismissed it as Tim simply being the first one out the door.

"Wine, Mr. Sinclair?"  the bartender asked whipping out a nice bottle of white to present to Tim with a flourish, as the four of us sat down for a pre-dinner drink.

I arched both brows, and confiscated Tim's glass since it was the only way I was going to get a drink without stomping my own grapes.  The other two were on their own.  From the slightly dazed looks on their faces though, they were beginning to come around to my side as they faded from view.

Tim, of course, protested vociferously that this was all in our collective imagination.  He insisted he was treated no differently than the rest of us peons.

But the clincher came when we sat down to dinner.

"Mr. Sinclair, I don't know who these people are that have somehow managed to sit at your table, but what would you like to eat?  You usually get the fish.  Shall we prepare it with a side of seasonal vegetables?  And I know you don't do bread, so I won't bring over the basket.  Also, here is a bottle of sparkling water which I know is your favorite.  Now, can I get you anything else?"

Somehow the waiter managed to avoid eye contact with any of the rest of us during his spiel, and successfully insert himself between the three of us and Tim by the time he was finished.

By now  though, it was clear to our friends that they had suffered my fate and ceased to exist.  They sat, mouths agape as reality sunk in.

Satisfied that my point had been made, I leaned past the waiter as he hovered over Tim, just in case "Mr. Sinclair" should need anything like an extra napkin, refill on his drink, more salad dressing, his chin wiped, to be burped.

"Perhaps you could ask him, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, if the people with Mr. Sinclair might actually get a little something to eat and drink too?"

Tim finally had the grace to at least look a little chagrined.  Not that that changed anything until after we checked out.  The three of us and Mr. Sinclair.