"Yeah, man." Sam's eyes darted around as Patrick escaped.
"Medium rare," Patrick ordered, and, by God, that's what he was served. Delicious. He ate slowly, each bite a mini-ceremony. Eating out was important to Patrick. While he was working, he worked hard, concentrating. Dinner was a time to relax, to think, and to look around. He enjoyed being in the midst of people without necessarily having to talk to anyone. The Deanie's crowd was straighter than the Depresso crowd. IBM'rs and local business people mixed with musicians and artists. The waitresses were middle-aged. The pies were particularly good.
This was Patrick's third dinner at Deanie's. He was beginning to feel more at home in Woodstock. His landlady, Gert, had become more friendly. Patrick was willing to help with little things around the house, that probably had something to do with it. She was a reader, too, he'd discovered. They talked about books. The other day, he'd asked her what she was reading.
"Every story is a love story, isn't it, Patrick?" She had chuckled comfortably and continued reading. He didn't know what to make of that. Did she mean every story about anything? Or every story a writer felt was worth the effort? She had said it as though it were self evident, as though he shouldn't be pestering her for an explanation. Or maybe he was supposed to figure it out for himself.
"Wonderful pie," he said to the waitress.
"We make a lot of them," she said. Patrick left a big tip and walked slowly toward home. He had an urge for a Hershey bar as he passed Ann's. Ann took his change without comment.
"Willow makes a good sandwich," he said.
"You like her, don't you," she said accusingly. He didn't know what to say. Ann glared at him. "You young people think we don't feel anything. Well, you're wrong. What's your name?"
"Patrick."
"We have feelings, too. You think we weren't young once?"