On flirting.......

“No pretty girl will talk to you!” I said that to *****, a lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool.
“Yet here you are talking to me,” I said. I think ***** liked I implied she was “pretty.” —And I said it offhandedly, not a proposition.
“Flirting,” I call it, for lack of a better word.
I was repeating the pompous posturing of Hilda Q. Walton, my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor, who convinced me all pants-wearers, including me at age-5, were SCUM. (I bet her husband was fooling around.)
Recently I was in Altoona (PA) to chase and photograph trains with my younger brother. We’re both railfans.
We stayed at the motor-court where we usually stay. When I pulled up to check in, a lady I recognize was behind the counter, and she recognized me.
Having not gone in yet, I waved. She smiled. (I flirted, as it were.)
Faire Hilda spins in her grave. 14,000 rpm, enough to power Florida south of Orlando.
If I learned anything at all since my wife died it’s to flirt.
That’s partly *****’s doing. She said hello to me in passing a few months ago, and I cranked enough nerve to later say hello back.
I’m sure Hilda was horrified.
Amazing success, and despite my many flubs, ***** and I became great friends.
“Why in Hell’s name am I friends with *****?” I ask. I’m 75 years old, and never was Adonis. *****’s a “looker.”
She’s married, yet when I walk into that pool, here comes ***** smiling. “Talk to me; make me laugh!”
Strike up a conversation. Often it crashes, but if so t’ain’t my fault. Move on to someone else, and ladies seem to love the attention.
That motel clerk was smiling. “Still chasing trains?” she asked. That motel is 255 miles south of my home, but that lady recognizes me. She has hundreds of clients, many of which are regulars.
But I stand out. I’m one that flirts. And obviously she likes it.

• A recent crotch-rocket motorcycle might be capable of 14,000 rpm. A Detroit V8 will start tearing itself apart at 8,000 (if it gets there).