Usually, Beth and I walk to our favorite coffee shop, but we drove today because, according to Beth’s iPhone, rain is likely. I was happy to see my favorite barista was on duty. But they were out of my favorite tea. I settled for a Jasmine Green, and we bought our bagel to share, butter on the side, and a small sack of pistachios. Today as always, I left it to Beth to butter the bagel and divide up the nuts. We sat in the comfy chairs and read our books and enjoyed our midmorning treats.

Maybe an hour later, I asked Beth if she wanted to share a muffin. She was agreeable, so I went to the counter to see what they had. The cranberry pumpkin are especially good, but they were out, so I settled for pistachio. “To go with the nuts,” I would tell Beth. The barista said she’d warm it up and take it out.

“Did they have anything?” Beth asked.

“Pistachio,” I said.

“Ah,” Beth said. “Goes with the nuts.”

Had I said that before? I tell you, my memory is going.

“Here you go,” the barista said, setting the muffin on the little table.

“Nice apron,” Beth commented, once the barista had returned to her station. “I bet you wish that was all she was wearing.”

I mumbled something noncommittal.

“She has a boyfriend, you know,” Beth continued. “Name of Barry, but she calls him Bear. I’m not sure whether she spells it B E A R like the animal or B A R E like...” Beth grinned at me.

Not long later there were only crumbs left of my half of the muffin. I contemplated them. Fetching them to my mouth in public would not be easy. In a private setting I might have licked them up directly from the plate. As it was, the crumbs resisted my antique fingers. Made me think of trying to fill our salt grinder yesterday after lunch, not that I use much salt anymore. Our large container of sea salt has but a small opening. Even with vigorous shaking, few crystals would come out. Those guys clung to their buddies, knowing perhaps their fate should they find themselves in the outside world. For some reason I thought of them as similar to honeybees hiding in their hive, the dangerous brown bear prowling outside an evil the equal of Vladimir Putin.

“Here, honey,” Beth said, putting a portion of her pistachio muffin on my plate.

“So kind of you,” I told her.

She grinned. After a glance to see no one was near, she whispered, “Maybe it’ll take your mind momentarily off that pretty barista’s ass. Do you suppose Bear tongues her flower from the front, or from behind?”

So much for taking my mind.