Celebrated St. Patricks Day at a party in Pacific Palisades. Wore a green velvet dress, drank white wine, and danced to the blues with a gray-haired guy.
For some men I write poetry. For him I wrote a ditty:
Met a widower from Pasadena,
An older guy
With a twinkle in his eye,
Called Peter OKrinkle.
Married forty years,
Hes a latter-day Rip van Winkle.
Said hed like to take me out,
But heres the rub or the wrinkle:
He left me suddenly after a dance
Without saying goodbye;
I wondered why . . .
He was having a nicotine fit
And went outside for a bit.
It was biting cold, but he didnt feel it;
What kept him warm was a cigarette.
He drove from Pasadena a week later to meet me at the Cheesecake Factory in Brentwood. He was at the bar when I walked in, gray-haired and handsome, sprung from his seat, and kissed me like a long lost lover.
I said: Shouldnt that wait for dessert?
He said: Thats an appetizer.
Im in trouble, I thought. Married forty years . . . Now hes reawakened!
We had a drink at the bar, and then he wanted to find an intimate candlelit restaurant for dinner, where he could whisper sweet nothings in my ear.
We stepped a few doors away to a French café. Dimly lit, but jam-packed.
We walked a block to another spot. Brightlike daylight.
We settled on Divino, a small Italian restaurant in my neighborhood, where the maitre d always says to me, a smoldering look in his eyes: It is good to see you. And I always answer: Its good to see you, too. (Now, thats romantic.)
The dinner was divine (or Divino), although OKrinkle complained: We sat opposite each other instead of together, so he couldnt whisper sweet nothings in my ear.
Afterward, he walked me home, lit a cigarette, and asked, Are you inviting me up?
I shook my head. We hardly know each other.
We know each other well enough, he said, fuming, and left me in a cloud of smoke.
I took home part of my dinner, so I was able to enjoy it the next day as well.
Thats what I call a happy ending