The amount of material at ones fingertips is staggering, encouraging you to write essays all day, just by logging in the miles of inappropriate behavior.
It’s Sunday, or No Worry Sunday, as it’s come to be called, where I dispense with all woe till Monday morning.
I’m having a great, unplanned day doing anything this oh heart a mine desires, including a stop at Morini, my favorite neighborhood watering hole for an ice cold glass of Prosecco, better known as, poor girl’s champagne.
It’s 3 p.m. A half an hour after Happy Hour began, so the place is still flush with brunchers sipping coffee and inhaling homemade Tiramisu, one of their specialties.
The medium size bar is empty, except for a 40ish bald man in white pressed tennis shorts drinking a martini, and a woman of a certain age whose boobs are front and center, like twins in a jumper seat.
They’re seated at opposite ends, talking to one another.
With little choice, I sit between them. Think Wimbledon without balls, sex appeal or Roger Federer…just a prosaic version of a volley…back and forth, back and forth.
I breathe in, muttering…patience Susannah, do not forsake your peace for a strain of poor manners.
The woman, despite her sagging age, is flirting unabashedly like a debutante, while this still young stallion, a wedding band picking up the overhead light is, I’m estimating, merely being polite.
I finally say, unable to contain myself a second longer,”Why don’t you two sit closer to one another?”
The woman, liking the idea, sits tall in her chair, while the man slumps in his, embarrassed at my overt suggestion.
Check please? They seem to say simultaneously…she from rejection, him from…Jesus, I was just being nice.
As I watch them both leave like strangers who never officially met, I settle on my cozy bar stool to write this, perhaps not the most riveting, but nonetheless, true just the same… essay.