Last night, after knitting (which Husband refers to as “your Hen Party”, which makes me snicker), I went to Barnes and Noble with Miss Kendra. We met up with Husband there, who was working on his crossword in the coffee-and-cookies area.
“Oh, look!” said I, almost pointing but then remembering at the very last second how rude that is, “It’s that guy!”
“What guy?” Miss Kendra looked around.
I pointed. (So much for manners.)
I’d seen this guy a few days earlier, sitting in the same chair. He is tall and fat, and in his early-to-mid-fifties. He wears a hat. Last week it was a cowboy hat; last night, a fedora. His hands move all the time, as if he were fingering a guitar, or kneading dough. Every so often, he sighs and grunts. He enjoys eating cake.
“He’s been talking to himself,” Husband cautioned.
Right on cue, the man turned to the empty chair next him. “Well, you know what the t’ain’t is, doncha?” Everyone in the room raised their heads slightly. He continued earnestly, “It’s the part that ain’t quite her pussy, and it ain’t quite her asshole.”
The chair did not respond, but several people edged away in fear.
The one-sided discussion of the t’ain’t continued, and so we decided it was time to depart. As we walked away, a man (who had, under the t’ain’t onslaught, abandoned his calculus) called after us, “Nurture your children, ladies!”