He was an old guy. He was out for a walk with a squatty, brindled dog. He was ahead of me on the sidewalk, and from behind I could see that he had steel gray hair and a spine more advanced in its kyphosis than mine. Older than me, I concluded, and slower. I soon caught up with him and the dog.
Since I rarely pass up a chance to make human contact these days, deprived as I’ve been of it ever since Jon died, I broke the ice by saying hello to the squatty dog. Soon the old guy and I were chatting. I got the feeling that he was as much in need of human contact as I. A widower, perhaps.
“You know that Colonial Donuts, the one up in the village?” he said as I started to walk on.
Coffee and Donuts?
I did know that place. I’d never been inside. I’ve always assumed its donuts to be sugary and its coffee watery. A place that skimps on the spelling of its doughnuts, I reasoned, was probably skimping on its doughnut ingredients.
“Sure,” I said. “It’s right there in the village.”
“Come join us. We’re there every morning. Nine to ten.”
“Nine ‘o clock. I’m barely awake by then,” I said.
“That’s OK. You can be late. Nobody cares.”
I’m a Widow. Was This Guy Asking Me for a Date?
Was this guy asking me for a date? Is this what a date looks when you’re 81 and the guy is pushing 90? Coffee at Colonial Donuts with him and his oldster friends?
If Jon were here, I wouldn’t think of taking this man up on his offer. That would be cheating on my husband. Not quite cheating, but something in that psychic neighborhood.
But Jon was no more. He wasn’t here to be cheated on. So I found myself feeling, weirdly, like I was being asked for a date — and considering accepting.
I haven’t been asked on a date in fifty-plus years. Not even from Jon. With Jon, it was mostly me who did the asking.
But standing on the sidewalk with this nice old guy, I felt my long-forgotten, single woman habits kicking in, like muscle memory. Do I want to pursue this? Do I want to be pursued?
No. This guy was too old for me. Too slow a walker. And I’m allergic to dogs.
After Jon died I assumed that my companions from then on in would be women. And that was okay with me. Women are good company. Fun.
And my women friends like to do the things I like to do — hike in the woods, go to art museums, talk about books, talk about writing, talk about kids, talk. I figured I wouldn’t be needing a man or men, singular or plural, from then on in.
But the old guy and his squatty dog woke something up in my grief-weary brain. Men are different, I recalled. Men are not women. Something happens when you are standing on the sidewalk talking with a man, one with an easy manner and friendly eyes. Something that doesn’t happen with a woman.
I don’t know what that something is. And I’m not ready to find out.
Ask me again next year.
Note: I’ve gotten some interesting feedback from friends since posting this essay. Apparently, kaffeeklatsches like the one described by the man with the squatty dog are a thing. Lots of single old people gather in mixed groups, men and women, on a regular basis for conversation and companionship. It seems I have been introduced to an entirely new (for me) American subculture, and old single people are now my peops. Whaddya know.
More about Jon at “Will Our Kids Grow Up to Be Cheaters?” Also, “My Computer Is Dead. Long Live My Omputer.” And for sure don’t miss this one: “It’s Jon the Old Guy I Miss the Most.”
I, and a large group of friends, meet almost daily at a coffee place at the beach somewhere between 7 and 8:00. Nothing formal, People come and go at different times, and occasionally a new person joins. I’ve been doing this for nearly the entire time I’ve been in San Diego-at first, only on the weekends when I worked; but now that I’m retired, I try to get down there a few times a week. These folks are the best support system a person could have. Ages range from 50ish and still working to the oldest at 92, who is a retired attorney. Give it a shot and see what happens. It’s only coffee! Hang in there.
Diane. I’m looking at this invitation to coffee in an entirely new way. You aren’t the first to tell me that there is a whole subculture out there, meeting in coffee shops. My challenge now is to get myself out of bed in time to catch the kaffeeklatsch. Maybe in a few more years, when I’m 90.
When I was single and 40 in a town where people weren’t single much, I ended up in one of these social scenes for older people!
This is so interesting. Apparently these old folks social scenes are everywhere. I might have to head over to that coffee shop and eat those donuts some Saturday morning.
I sometimes go in and get a raised glazed. It had been decades before I went in for the first time. Their coffee is good and it turns out that I like donuts. Like Barbara though, they are not part of my regular food. They were fun though for a while. I did see the group of oldsters enjoying their morning coffee and donuts. All good. They help people enjoy each other and their mornings. eb
Aha! So this is a bona fide gaggle of oldsters enjoying their morning doughnuts . . . err, donuts. This man was not leading me down a primrose path. Good to know.
He did say, ‘Join us.’ So maybe he thought you would enjoy the company of his group. But it might be harder to back out than to join in.
Yes. He did say, “Us.” Now I’m getting curious. I might have to get myself out of bed before 9 a.m. one of these mornings and check out this kaffeeklatsch.
i bet some of the folks in the donut klatch are the same as those my next door neighbor used to meet regularly, decades ago after her divorce. nice group.
Hmmm. Meeting a bunch of folks for coffee seems to be a thing. I just might give it a try.
You should have gone for coffee.
Nancy, I got a number of emails from friends suggesting I go for those donuts. Maybe I will one of these days!