"This blueberry pie is awesome!" exclaimed Sandra.
"It's hands-down the best I've ever had!" I agreed, rolling another awesome piece into my mouth after initially missing and rolling the first awesome piece into my beard.
It was my third or fourth date with Sandra, the slightly younger Baby Boomer I'd met at the Bummed Out Boomers Meetup Group several weeks ago. Away from that particularly toxic environment she turned out to be a rather bright and engaging woman, and we were sitting that evening at a trendy downtown café where the pricing for coffee and pastries required use of Boolean Algebra to comfortably calculate.
“That was wonderful, Perry,” said Sandra, “and it’s on me.”
“Oh, Sandra, no, I've got it.”
"But Perry, you're a writer."
"Unless you're Ernest Hemingway, you’re probably not making ends wave at each other, let alone meet.”
Sandra was amazing. If we went to the movies and I paid for the tickets, Sandra bought popcorn and sodas. If we went to the art museum and I paid to get in, she bought admission for the special exhibits. If I bought gas, she cleaned the windshield, checked the tire pressure, and paid for the gas.
Yes, sir, things seemed to be shaping up nicely for my head, my heart, and most importantly, my wallet.
This past week we went out to dinner at a medium priced place in town and after a friendly tug of war for the check we agreed we'd split it.
"Okay, Sandra, but next time it's ALL on me, no arguments!"
"Okay, Perry, I'll agree. Say, could we stop back at the cafe?"
"You’re still hungry?"
“No, I just want some more of that awesome pie for later."
"Can we get a piece for both me and my neighbor Michelle?"
"And also for my friend Judith and her spouse Iris, and their son Tommy, and oh yes, my Aunt Rochelle and Uncle Sol?"
"Uh, Sandra, this is beginning to look like a starting lineup.”
“And my college roommate Amy and her boyfriend Ned and my Mom, can't forget her, and my good friends Betty and Elaine from yoga and....”
“Sandra, for chrissakes, I'm a writer!!!”
“And of course Elaine from work, and the guy in the mailroom, and my ex-boyfriend Phil, and his new girlfriend, and ...”
Maybe Sandra's a wee bit mercurial.
I'm sorry. I dismissed the rest of the story after reading "my third or fourth date with Sandra." (after all, who's counting)
At first I thought this was fiction, but it's obviously fantasy. Don't forget to pick up some Polident before you drop Sandra off at the retirement center. I hear blueberry stains are hard to remove from dentures.
Well, it may or may not be fiction, and it may even be science fiction, but I'm glad the character is getting to have more fun than I am, at least until the check comes due. Do you think Sandra has dentures? Hell, I can't be picky about something like that, as long as I don't have to pay for them too.
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