There was a guy who came to work at the Daily Camera when I was there. We hit it off right away.
After he was there a couple of weeks he came over to my desk.
“I’m not coming on to you.” For the record, this is never a good thing to say to me, because it makes me wonder why the hell not. “But I gotta tell you that you feel familiar to me. I feel like you’ve been my best friend for years. It’s weird.”
We became great friends. He got along with my husband. We shared a lot of laughter, and when he met the girl for him, I gave him advice behind the scenes.
One night they came over for a dinner evening. We thought it would be fun to make it a formal event.
I cleaned and decorated. I made a tremendous meal. I fixed up a beautiful table.
But when we were having wine and conversation in the library, my 4-year-old son came in and stood near the center of the visiting.
“I think I found a clue,” he announced.
He was looking down at the center of my Oriental rug.
There was a big dead mouse there that none of us had noticed. It had cat-teeth punctures in its side.
Scott made a face of considering. He nodded, “No, buddy, I think you’ve solved this one.”
That was it. The playing grown-up had cracked. We burst into laughter, and in my gown and rhinestones, I scooped up the mouse and burped.