I’m at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s American Wing, remembering what it was like before they installed a coffee bar.
I used to come here to write, when it was a sanctuary…quiet, peaceful. Now it’s Epcot with statuary, surly waiters and Tiffany windows.
As I ponder when peace was a given over the din of the espresso machine, I can also hear snippets of conversation a couple are having over the woman’s alleged weight gain.
“I’m still a size 8 I’ll have you know,” she says, poking him in the chest with a long, red nail.
“Yeah well, your ass is more like a 38.”
Which I’m certain she wished she had in her handbag…cocked.
When the waiter brought over her Linzer Tart, she refused to eat it.
“You’re not gonna eat that? It cost 6 bucks?”
“You apologize to me.”
“For what…telling the truth? You’re too fat, and that’s that.”
“Maybe you need to go find yourself someone skinny, how bout that?”
Did she just look my way, or did I imagine it?
“When I married you, you were half your size. What the hell happened?”
This is when I fell in love with her.
“Waiter, bring me two more tarts,” she said, proceeding to eat the one she had.
The waiter called out, “Anything for the gentleman?”
“Yeah, the check.”