Once I went to a party at one of the local law firms. One of the principle's (principal's?) wives is a very nice and brainy "hottie", and has borrowed books, and oh, you know, wisdom, from me.
We share interests in art and history and architecture; and besides, there's free booze at the party. (Never discount free booze.) Awash, Mon.
Uhm. So there, I was afraid to talk to anyone (I can't believe I even used to go, but you get invited every year, and I used to be able), so I was talking to the hothouse orchid, and she was trying to date the photograph of their building. Not the building, per se, but the date of the photograph. Personally, I could have dated either, but I do a lot less dating now.
Well!
Well!
Heh heh.
I took a look-see and a another sip-slosh, and I said, studiously, with "pensivity" that can't be faked, "Well, it looks like about 1922 to me, based on the age of that tree and the introduction of double-flowering cherries to north coast of America."
I should have yanked up her skirt right then, because she was ready.
Made a deep impression.
Sort of a Sean Connery of The Orchard N'Arts. (Pan? Faun?) I mean, I could tell, just every other guy, A-types, faded from the room. She started smiling and playing with the top of her glass, and I ran outside, all the way home to my house. |
