She is slightly overdressed for this place. They walk into the cheap Mexican restaurant and stick out.
She’s wearing a blue blouse, blue flats. He’s wearing khakis. They have matching white hair.
He has a nasty cough.
This place is busy, the hostess leads them to the bar while they wait for a table.
The walk is a short one. They make it arm in arm. She orders wine. Him: beer.
They don’t say much. They’re both watching the television above bar. Soccer is on.
“I don’t understand this sport,” he tells me, and he talks like a jar of Karo syrup.
I say something to him. He courtesy-laughs, which leads to a coughing fit. He holds a hanky over his mouth.
“We ONLY watch football,” his wife says, leaning forward while he coughs.
The conversational ice is broken. We talk.
Well—rather, she talks. I listen and say things like: “hmm,” and, “oh, how wonderful,” and “yes ma’am, I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”
She’s a flower. In our brief time together, I learn they have three kids, they are Presbyterians, he is an Auburn fan, she is
not. She is as friendly as a politician.
“You live here?” she asks.
“No ma'am, just here for the night.”
“Us too, we're on our way to Birmingham.”
He’s still coughing. Hard. He stands and leaves for the restroom.
When he’s gone, she tells me, “He’s having surgery in two days.” She points to her chest when she says it.
“It’s his second one,” she goes on. “Say a prayer for him. We’re taking all the prayers we can get.”
I yes-ma’am her.
She’s a cheery little thing.
The hostess calls them, I tell her it was lovely meeting her.
The old man offers her an elbow, they hook arms like it’s nineteen fifty-one. He slides out her chair for her. She sits erect, then places a napkin in her…