I work with the public, so I get hit on all the time. (Well, some… Okay. More than I’d like.)
It’s not because I’m hot stuff. (I’m not.) It’s because I’m paid to be nice to people, and because there’s a rumor going around the senior center that if you can keep it up long enough to have sex with a woman, she has to cook you breakfast. With Texas Toast and everything.
And, honestly, I think once a man hits eighty or ninety, he’s aware that you’re not actually going to slap him.
I have one old fellow who routinely informs me that if I were his woman, he’d never take me out of bed… unless there was more room on the floor.
I’m not sure whether that’s because he’s persistent, or because he doesn’t remember the last time. Either way, I know he’s just in it for my grandmother’s liver and onions recipe. (Yes, he and his wife used to eat at my grandparents’ diner. Yes. When I was eight. No, I’m not actually sure he connects grown-up me with eight-year-old me.)
His wife died about six months ago. So, I asked myself what she would do. And then I arranged for him to have a ride to Catholic church so he can get more Catholic Jesus in his life. (And hopefully, a little St. Jerome, too.) Small towns have their privileges.