Me or the Frittata

You know, I, as a dyed-in-the-wool (ain’t that a grand expression?) flaming curmudgeon, always critical, always suspecting, always expecting the most common in folks and fellows, I really ought to hate this woman for just being able to be beautiful for no apparent reason whatsoever. But her beauty is not just visual — that’s obvious, and often boring and I, admittedly, worship it in men who don’t deserve it, but you try being a gay homosexual just once in a while and see if you aren’t just the slightest bit odd and off and outré — distant to protect yourself from imagined nothings — she is smart, well-educated, comes from a good family, enjoys the theatre and art and elegant shoes. Why she likes me, well, maybe that’s a fault. I don’t know and I don’t care. But she, without even trying, makes me feel worthy. So I suppose that’s why we’re friends. She puts up with my panoply of quirks — so few are willing, bless those who are — and never expects me to be less than what I actually am, instead of what I am always pretending to appear to be. When I snapped this photo at Fred’s restaurant at Barney’s (what the HELL am I doing there?!) she said “Are you taking a picture of me or the frittata? Because I’m not smiling?” Even NOT smiling the damn woman is smiling. She inspires me.