It was Sunday night a hair before sunset. I had neurotically gone to the mailbox on the corner to mail my birthday thank you notes, even though the next pickup wasn’t until Monday at noon.
You can’t accuse me of procrastinating, at least not where etiquette is concerned. My mother would make me write the note before opening the gift. I feel her in my midst if I even remotely think, eh…I’ll just write them later. There she is with stationary, tapping her wooden spoon to a Sinatra tune.
Directly in front of the mailbox is a L’ Occitane, a very high-end fragrance store, now closed for the day. In front they have an ample wooden bench fastened to its facade. There sat the cutest couple in their 80s taking a little rest…round and robust, rosy and red-faced. They looked as if they were completely made of dough with a touch of rum tossed in.
I suddenly saw them on a cookie sheet which told me, Susannah…you need more sleep.
I couldn’t help smiling, the way they held hands as if they were soldered together. If it wouldn’t have been rude, I would have snapped their picture, but instead addressed them.
“You look very content sitting there.”
They smiled back without answering telling me, they may not know what the hell I’m saying, but did that stop me?
“It’s such a beautiful time of day…watching the sun go down.”
Still no response.
I stalled for a second before smiling one last time. These two weren’t talkin’ however, the husband, as I turned to leave, winked at me.
The wife, who clearly doesn’t miss a trick, let go of his hand punching him good and hard in the shoulder.
I guess even in your eighth decade, you expect your man to behave himself.
As for me, if she punched me that hard, I’d be down for the count, so I got the hell out of there…