It’s Saturday night. A handful of years ago we'd be out to dinner with another couple. I’d order that third glass of Cabernet and avoid Jimmy’s disapproving eyes. These days I’m driving myself home so I rarely have more than one. Ironic, now that I need it.
On a hot summer night like tonight we’d drive a town away to Freeport for ice-cream or go over to the Jones Beach boardwalk and play miniature golf. I always hated miniature golf. It’s fun once every ten years. He assumed I loved it too, so the tradition happened. Then I just went along.
That’s how I got stuck eating creamed corn each time I visited Aunt Sylvia. I miss Aunt Sylvia, but I just couldn’t deal with that creamed corn anymore.
In Freeport the crowds are in their 20’s and loud. Dozens of kids scream above the outside bands that compete for the foot traffic. The ice-cream was good and we always held hands. That was nice, but the noise went right through me. I’d tell Jimmy I thought I was having a stroke.
“I’d love you more if you couldn’t talk.”
Jimmy had a theory that God only gives us so many words. Once we use them up that’s it.
I’d tell him I’ll take my chances. He’d roll his eyes.
Saturday nights will never be the same. Well, at least, I don’t have to play miniature golf anymore.