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...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.