We sung happy birthday to a man turning 86, Melissu and I did. Melissu's a gal I work with; she looks like she's 22 but has a 17-year-old daughter so she must not be. She has white-blonde hair and big blue eyes. ("Came with the face," she tells me.) She likes to pinch baby's cheeks, to goof off, and to say miscellaneous swear words under her breath. I like her.
Ray told us he was 42 and asked if we believed him. I dutifully nodded my head. He smiled and softly laughed. "I'm double that," he said. And as an afterthought, "Plus two."
"So, are you gonna sing me happy birthday?" He asked.
We sung it all the way through in the lobby of the YMCA. When we finished his eyes were wet and he was blushing. He blew us each a kiss and then thanked us.
And I wouldn't want Mitch to worry (so maybe don't mention it) but: yeah, I still got it.
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