Waiting

While at a birthday party last weekend, some time after we had declined to give a snort about fireworks that may or may not be seen from the roof (we pondered, drinks in hand, of questionable ability to do so, had we the desire), but sometime before the inevitable close of the evening (sometime the next morning), we sat at the fire-pit, conversing. We, meaning one of the more elderly men (young in spirit, though, and try convincing him otherwise) and myself.

We quibbled about our gardens at length, and about everything else that had passed since we last spoke. Inevitably, the discussion shifted to the state of my personal life. Specifically, the notable lack of a better-looking, better-dressed, better-behaved complement to my shambling mess (to complete that tired old Victorian stigma), complete with lady-parts and parasol.

I shrugged. "The last one didn't work out", I offered. "I owed her better than wasting her time with something that wasn't about to work."

He nodded, and swirled the quasi-alchemical mixture in his Mason jar, as if attempting to read it like so many tea leaves.

At length he said, "You need to find yourself a cute little waitress somewhere and settle down."

I was immediately taken with the image, and had nothing further to say beyond, "Yep."