Booth Talk . . .

(Disclaimer - This story is months old. The identities of those involved (except me) have been modified slightly for the protection of all involved.)

Soooo I'm having breakfast the other day with an older guy that I know through a business arrangement. No. He's not my John or my benefactor. He's not my boss or a vendor. He does, however, provide a service to me. We chose to eat at my favorite random breakfast spot here in the Wichi-Wichi, The Beacon. (My FAVORITE spot for the morning meal is Denny's. I don't care - judge me. My skin is thick and layer of morbid obesity thicker-still).

I love The Becaon because it truly has everything there. Art for sale on the walls that no one is ever, ever, ever going to buy decorate the place. Hipsters curl their mustaches (and that is just the girls) and talk about the farmer's market and their bicycle dreams. Farmers sit and chat about the weather, their crops, and that no-good Obama at the White House. "Couples" sit for a "Wellll, we did have sex within hours of meeting so perhaps we should share some eggs and waffles and figure out if we actually do like each other or at least ask enough questions to not worry about the long term health impacts of last night" spell. There is a counter for the coffee-only people. Booths for the "slide in" crowd. Tables for the families and those that like their own space. Waitresses that will warn you they are about to go on their "smoke break" so you might be on your own for a few minutes. It. Is. Magic.

This particular meal was no exception. Let me set the scene . . .

It is me and my guy. He's in his late-60s. A self-identified "Christian" (yeah . . . you do not know where this is going), a married man, a happy father, a professional. He's eating the biggest breakfast I've ever seen anyone order at The Beacon and he's putting enough ketchup on it to actually frighten tomato plants in surrounding counties. He's on his EIGHTH cup of coffee and he's on story-telling-FIRE. He's talking about private piloting, and one night stands, and what is wrong with the state of Kansas, and "How many ____ does it take to screw in a lightbulb?" jokes and general lunacy when all of the sudden he interrupts himself. Stops DEAD in his story telling tracks. Deeply exhales over the top of his mug of coffee and gives someone over my shoulder three FULL, rather creepy, ups-and-downs. I try, casually, to look over my shoulder to see who he's stink eyeing. No success.

To my fortune, they are walking toward our booth. I look to the right and there is a woman in her early-70s. At least. She's got a perfect coif of pearly-white hair. She's got dazzling blue eyes, she's dressed sharply, and her orthopedic shoes are almost fully disguised as modified kitten heels. She's in good shape. I'm not going to lie. No Amore woman will ever look this good as a septuagenarian. She walks by us without incident.

My boothmate cranks his head around like it is on a proverbial swivel . . . watches ogles her all the way to the ladies room, turns back to me and simply says . . .

"Did you get a look at that f*cking bird? G-d D*MN! She was giving me the eye."

He puffs up his chest and sniffles with self-righteous pride.

I do the only logical thing . . . laugh.

He's NOT kidding. He's pretty sure this woman just checked him out and or gave him the "Let's meet in the bathroom and not risk having a baby as our old, post "the change", saggy butts collide in passion." face/sign/eyes.

I challenge him with the raise of my right eyebrow.

"I'm not kidding, kid. She wants it. I can tell. Damn!" (he turns and looks, wistfully, at the bathroom) "I wonder if she's here alone," he muses.

I quickly change the subject - of course now my mind is obsessed with the question of what age women (and men) stop giving/receiving these glares and if there is ANY chance this woman just gave this guy the ol' "How YOU doin'?" on her way to the powder room (we'll pretend The Beacon has a fancy powder room to give this woman her due grace).

A few minutes later, I get my chance to watch it in reverse.

I nod my head, not so slightly, based on his request that I do so when she is making her way back up the aisle to go back to the adjacent dining room. She is a beautiful older woman (note I said "beautiful" not "sexy" or "luscious"). She seems very confident in herself and her appearance. I'm now officially on the fence.

Then - it happens - she gets just about even with our booth. My guy cocks his head to his left to face the walkway and she looks in at him and he says "Hey, you."

She looks startled. "(uh) Hello?"

"You here alone?" my guy barks (for the record he has officially NO game. This is the worst semi-retired playa' in the history of poor, sex-driven diner behavior EVER.

"I'm here with a few girlfriends," she offers - looking at me trying to figure out if she knows me, him, or if there is any chance I will be chivalrous if stuff gets officially weird for her.

"I see," he says with some self-satisfaction (the "at least there is not a guy over there you might be WITH").

She wishes us a happy meal and walks on by, looking back twice (I know because now I creepily watch her walk away if only to monitor the lunacy he might soon insist upon).

She disappears and he says "Damn it, kid. We gotta' get over there and see what her friends look like. I'll bet she's the best of the bunch and I guarantee she'd rather be with me than them."

At this point I just want to fall through the floor or offer to buy every piece of questionable "art" in the place as a way to get directly out of there. I don't even know how to argue or correct and I don't know if it is worth it anyway.

I'll maybe (if curses are real and I deserve them all) be this guy in 30 years. Just sitting around a diner talking about my glory days and hoping that every old woman in the place is giving me "THE eye" yet, in the moment, I'm more horrified that this guy is so disconnected from reality.

Anywho - you'll be pleased to know that the breakfast ended without incident (four more cups of coffee were consumed and the ketchup bottle officially drained). I've not broken bread with this guy since but I presume he's still feeling pretty good about himself.

Seriously, though . . . at what age do we stop lusting for strangers? I was sorta hoping that would be sooner vs. later for me . . . No?