...Than are dreamt of in your philosophy
This afternoon I stopped to donate a box of old clothing. Another woman was there, too, taking box after box out of the back of her SUV. She looked a bit older than I am, attractive, suburban, pleasant. "Feels good, doesn't it?" I said to her.
"Bittersweet," she answered. "Some of it is kid stuff."
"Mine, too," I told her.
She asked me how old my kids were, and I politely did the same. "24, 22...and 9," she said, and waited for a reaction.
And I thought, I guess there's a story there. But I know better than to say anything about the composition of strangers' families beyond the blandest of pleasantries, so "Oh! Lucky you!" is what I said.
She must have been disappointed that I didn't ask, because, by God, she was going to tell me. "Yeah," she said, leaning against her car's liftgate, looking pleased. "That's what happens when you do a bunch of shots..."
And I thought that was strange, that she'd be so forthright, but I was still kind of impressed. I thought, Wow. Now here's an infertile who's really out. Lady, let your freak flag fly, I thought.
"...Of tequila," she finished.
I have a good imagination. I could probably make that shit up. But now and again I find myself shocked that, whaddya know, I don't have to.