“These days,” he croons in a thoughtful baritone, “it seems that everybody expects physical congress with everybody else. If you’re not making a pass at a man’s wife — or the man himself — you’re kind of an oddball.” “I’ve noticed that,” she coos in reply. “I wonder if it has always been like that,…

I’m not in any danger of her passing me, but she’s sure keeping up, a surprise in itself. She can tell I’m surprised too and feels good about that. As a sprinter, I’m no Jamaican, but I can be a strong, front-row charger. Then imagine my chagrin, her still there, almost shoulder-to-shoulder. We run through…

“You just revealed a side of yourself I didn’t know you had.” “Which side would that be?” “The delusional.” “My bad. Should I hum ‘The Missouri Waltz’ on my way out?” “To prove or to disprove?” “Neither. Just to do it.” “Don’t hum. Whistle.” “I’ll hum.” He hums. Nobody laughs or tries to sing along.