I’m observing. The place is a cozy wine bar in Reno, a place where older couples often meet for the first time after connecting online, sending attractive photos and serving up clever banter.
She arrives first, choosing a table in the back corner facing the front door. She tests out various seating positions, finally choosing to cross her right leg. She checks her phone, fusses with her hair and decides to hold rather than wear her glasses.
He arrives, projecting an air of confidence while casually surveying the occupants for the match.
They meet. Neither shows a hint of disappointment. That would be rude.
The game is on.
Sherry finally shows up, looking as if she’s just finished her workout. She has. She dislikes the table I picked and ushers me to one closer to the window. She asks if I picked up the dry cleaning as I promised. I kind of nod. I figure I can swing by and get it on my way home.
The other game is on. Thank goodness it’s the one I’m playing.