Two old fellas sat at the park. The sun was bright, and the air was crisp, but they complained anyhow—as old men are prone to do—about the weather.
“That’s one hell of a sweater, George,” said the smaller one from under a bushy mustache.
George’s bulging frame was squeezed into an absolute circus of a Christmas sweater that—in Clyde’s opinion—no self-respecting man would have worn.
“The old lady got it for me,” George said, looking over at Ethel, who was chatting with another woman some distance away. “I’d take it off, but you know how she gets if I don’t wear the stuff she buys me.”
His tone was a veneer—a mock annoyance sitting overtop a chasm of deep and enduring love like a manhole cover. George had been with Ethel since he was a kid, and their love was still like something out of a storybook.
George smiled. George was always smiling. Clyde looked at Ethel—who gave a little wink and a wave to George. After all these years, he still pined for her like a puppy chasing its owner, and she …
