Time is a strange thing, especially when you run into men you had dates with decades ago.
Peter, I’ll call him, was a suit my pal Tabitha fixed me up with way back when. He’s so cool, I remember her saying. What she forgot to mention was that he was also, so short, and could have used the Bronx Yellow Pages as a booster seat. One remembers a fact, such as that, since you expected Cary Grant and instead got Curly, of The Three Stooges.
But the thing that really came back as I watched him crawl across 5th hunched in his senior-hood, was when he recommended the fish at this fancy bistro his expense account took us to, and when it came, said…you know how I like to eat this? Proceeding to pour tabasco sauce all over it.
Thank God he didn’t douse the salad.
On the heels of his orthopedic shoes, I saw another fella I had a few rendezvouses with when first coming to the big city. He was French and the owner of several chic restaurants models flocked to like pigeons flapping their wings.
He was tall, dark and handsome with breath that could sink a ship. I did everything to try to correct this problem…slipping Certs into his pocket…asking for enough parsley to make a hula skirt, but he just didn’t pick up the signs, causing me to pick up and go.
I mean, how much is a shallow, only in it for an appetizer, girl…expected to take?
Funny the things we remember.