“Sweetie”

“Got any sweeties?” a cousin asked prior to our annual south Jersey Thanksgiving gig.
That cousin knows I’m a widower.
“Nope!” I exclaimed. “I did so extremely well I ain’t lookin’. Someone might drift into my life that changes my mind, but I don’t expect that.”
My wife was one of the extraordinaries. During the near 75 years I been on this planet I’ve met thousands. Only five were extraordinary. Three were female, and one I happened to marry.
Of the women one was a cousin, one a girl I met in college, and one was the one I married, also met in that college.
There probably were others, but I been shut out since childhood.
My wife wasn’t extraordinary at first, except perhaps to her female friends. And what does a 23-year-old male know when so driven to procreate? (Taste and decorum here.)
Apparently enough to send one girl packing. She had big plans for me, but I knew I couldn’t be the person she wanted me to be, so I gave her the “Dear John.”
“We think alike,” my wife used to say. “I was thinking the same thing you were.”
I also could say anything, and didn’t hafta explain. Kierkegaard, sick puns, meaning-of-life, obtuse words: extraordinaries, both male and female, get ‘em.
I have befriended a few ladies since my wife died, and they would be sorely missed. But they’re not my wife. Most are entirely different; I wonder why they let me be friends.
I remember a guy across the street badmouthing his wife: “I hafta get away!” he said.
“I really like my wife,” I said, ruining macho posturing. Deafening silence = Party-Pooper!
I been on-my-own over six years, and would miss the women I’ve befriended. How I managed to do as well as I did is beyond comprehension. Easy-to-talk-to, harmless, a bleeding-heart liberal?
The one half insane was me, but my wife was extraordinary.
“So maybe you’ll be back next year with someone.”
“I doubt it,” I said.