My friend is a farm girl. She goes to the city, marries, raises children, and later moves back to the old home place. Not long after that, she loses a finger in an accident. I get to know her two years ago, after she is widowed.
We are both 86 years old. Opposites attract. I am city boy wonky, and she is country girl stable. We go out a few times. I find enjoyment teasing women, including her, because it makes them prettier. She accuses me of flirting, which of course I deny by virtue of age, although flirting also makes them prettier.
Recently we eat out. Business is slow and we begin chatting with the twenty-year old server, who possesses a delightful personality. I begin to tease her a little and chit-chat develops. During our chatter, my friend thinks she hears the server refer to us as being married. It’s her opening.
Heaven forbid. She cannot let that impression prevail, and she interrupts the server. “Oh, we are not married. Oh, no! However, for reasons I cannot explain, this is our second time around. I don’t know why. You see, the first time he gave me a ring. However, the son-of-a-gun wanted it back and I refused” as she holds up her left hand with the ring finger missing.
The server, surprised at the horrible thought, catches on and our laughter rocks the restaurant’s atmosphere. My friend’s timing and storytelling are perfect. I learn to admire her talent for devilish humor made delightful.
The feminine woman is full of surprises that men appreciate, and my friend leaps from 8 to 9 in geriatric terms.