I'll Meet You at Picasso's

I started this post a couple of weeks ago, visiting my Brother the Prince and his family. I was sitting on the floor in the children’s section of a Books-a-Million, while dear son played with a train or somesuch. I jotted that I was blogging the “old-fashioned way.” Aren’t I funny.

Before visiting the bookstore, my brother, sister in law, dear son, and I had lunch at this cool restaurant called Picasso’s (one day, dear readers, I’ll learn how to hyperlink. Until then … www.picassopizzeria.com). They served wood-fired pizzas and scrumpdillyicious breadsticks with several yummy dipping sauces.

And ya’ll. The waiter? He was totally checking me out. He was cute, too, in that brooding/suffering artist kind of way, you know? (Do you ever do this, make up a complete story for someone you happen to see randomly, like while you’re people-watching? I do that all the time. I give them irritating brothers in law and neighbors who they envy and an irrational fear or two and a food allergy. I decorate their homes and figure out what they drive. It’s great fun.) For this guy, I imagined that he was a tortured creative sort who probably sculpted in the evenings. He waited tables to keep him in clay and whatnot. On breaks he smoked French cigarettes and read literary magazines.

Our now erudite (to me, anyway) waiter made eye contact several times and when he brought the check, he glanced at me again, saying that he hoped to see us in there again soon.

Okay, big woo, right? Except it reminded me that this is how strangers meet in the real world without benefit of a computer keyboard.