I bask in the warmth of the sun amidst the subdued chatter and the delicate clinks of silver against the white ceramic plates. I am on the patio of a famous actor’s restaurant although it doesn’t seem to matter - not like it did twenty or so years ago - with the anticipated unspoken question - "Would he grace us with his presence? Make our day?" It doesn’t seem to matter. It could be Bubba Gump’s on the Wharf or Margaritaville in Key West. Their presence in their own restaurants seems off brand now. They are too much to contemplate. It would not pair well with the charcuterie and Pinot Grigio.
There is a wedding over my right shoulder. Everyone acting the part. I wonder if anyone will get terribly drunk and hook up. I hope so. I am not invited to an annual Valley hot sauce party tonight. I am not someone who gets invited to themed parties. I order onion rings well done but not burnt, an excuse to pair something with ketchup. My mother passed a month ago. On her worst day she could spike a compelling conversation. I watch a young mother walk her teetering toddler up a small hill encouraging her every step. I miss my mother’s encouragement. It is a calm, sublime day. I wish I had a firecracker.
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