You sipping citrus flavored water, I’m damping down the obligatory bourbon …post heel and toe shopping… late luncheon at R.L.’s. Think that hot ass Ferragamo pump sums the smart business casual I query, stabbing a shrimp swimming in Bombay Gin Cocktail Sauce. You tease back with a tart wink. Disarmed, I attack my Polo Club. You nibble your Lobster Roll. I broach the why of the poach of your crustacean. You’re having none of that. Nor a dessert. But the flirt continues. Three decades in. And you suggest a detour. To an old haunt rumored to still sport a regulation size table. Over dressed, the bar understocked, and a generation removed, you wow all the youngins’ when you two rail the eight ball.
old means old is fine with me the new computer being unfamiliar, mine in name only