Taming a Sea Horse

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I hadn't had lunch with Patricia Utley since the last time the Red Sox won the pennant. That seems like another way to say never, but in fact it had been ten years. We were looking at the menu and sipping margaritas (on the rocks, salt) in a restaurant called Bogie's on West 26th Street in Manhattan.

"Veal's awfully good here," Patricia said.

"So are the margaritas," I said.

She smiled. "Margaritas are good everywhere."

Ten years had made little impression on Patricia Utley. She was still small and blond and fine-boned. She still wore big black-rimmed round glasses. She still looked very good.

The waitress came and took our order and went away. She came back shortly with a second margarita for me. Patricia Utley still had most of hers left. It's hard to make a margarita last and with each sip it becomes harder. I put my glass down, licked a little salt off my upper lip. No problem. I'd just leave it there a while and then I'd have another little sip.

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