So I'm lingering at a long red light, absently sniffing my wrist (as I am prone to do now), when a Volvo pulls up beside me. A trim mustached Englishman, probably pushing 85, grins up at me on my bike.
He compliments me on the fact that I'm wearing a flashing indicator on the back of my pack, and we agree that it's clearly only right given the way the night's begun closing in again at 9 pm. He asks where I work, and I name the Extravagantly Gigantic Group. It turns out that his son-in-law works at EGG too, though is in a different department entirely. I shrug, smiling, and say that I guess I've just not met him yet.
"Do you like fat swallow?"
I'm pretty sure I've misheard that, so I ask him to repeat himself.
"Do you like Fats Waller?" He grins and turns up the car stereo, which I can now hear is playing mellow jazz. It's nice, and he bobs his head a little, in the groove. I laugh and say that I do like the music, mostly because I do.
The light changes. "Goodnight!" I say, and start to pedal away.
He slowly peels off to the left, one arm jauntily hanging over the doorframe, and calls out with the sort of style Bogart would have envied: "Bye, baby!"
I'll bet he was quite the catch.
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