The “bartender” sat on a stool behind the bar. He had but two things to offer. White wine in a box. And ice, because the wine was not chilled. Apparently, whoever’d been sent hadn’t made it back with the beer yet. Fortunately, I’d brought the hosts a bottle of red. He opened it and poured me a glass.
It was the twilight hour. A band played Rock and Roll Music. The singer sounded so much like John. Children were running around gleefully. The warm rose-colored light of dusk shone brightly on their smiling faces. An old woman seated with a cane by her side tapped her foot in time with music while young girls danced about. Dogs barked. Couples kissed. Strangers shook hands. Tennis friends patted one another on the back and teased each other about the coming week’s victor. The buffet in the distance overflowed with food that Don and Joan’s daughters had prepared. A long-haired, tatooed boy manned the grill. He handed me a hotdog. I took a bite. It was lukewarm with remnants of having been frozen. I discarded it when he wasn’t looking and made my way to the buffet, where the food sat in tins above sternos and was less likely to be frozen. My friend handed me a plate, fork and knife and we helped ourselves to the delicious offerings.
With full plates, we made our way over to a bench facing the buffet. We sat between an old man of few words and a young boy of too many. I was too interested in my food to care. Until I heard a man’s voice in the distance.
My kingdom for a fork!
He was pouring over the plates. Spoons. Knives. There was a box of forks right underneath them, but he didn’t see it. I walked to the table, moved the box of spoons to reveal his bounty and handed him a fork.
Thanks.
That’s all? No way, buster!
I was to understand that I would be receiving your kingdom in exchange for said fork.
No reaction. Whatsoever. Really? Who shit in your Wheaties this morning, my leige? He clearly wasn’t Mr. Lucky Girl. He looked like he’d just come from a Renaissance Fair. Not. My. Type.
But a man in earshot was watching this exchange and laughing. At least somebody appreciated my humor. I returned to my seat on the bench and was approached by an 87-year-old man with a band-aid on his nose. He wanted to introduce me to his son. Alex walked over with an outstretched hand and a smile. He’d been the man laughing about my kingdom. He was really cute. He reminded me of an old friend. He looked exactly like him, really. Except that he was short. Really, really short. Like maybe 5’5″ if we’re lucky short. He took a seat next to me. Oh boy. This was not going to end well. I would stand up, and with my boots on, his eyes should fall just about right at the height of my nipples. Terrific. I love being tall. Until I meet a really cute guy who’s Arnold Drummond sized.
We talked for a while, Alex and I. He was interesting. Funny. Sweet. Attentive. He seemed to cling to my every word. He was interested in me and all I could think of was this dreaded moment when we both would stand up and that would be the end of that. I finished my wine. We rose to get drinks. My estimations were accurate. We made our way to the bar together and filled our drinks. He returned to his parents, who he’d come back east to visit. But there was magic happening over by the performance stage, and I was hypnotized by it.
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