“Talk to me, make me laugh!”

—“Come on in,” said my cute new friend at my doggy daycare kennel.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
She’s 19 years old, and trusts me, smiling.
“Careful!” my hairdresser exclaims.
I imagine the following: “Talk to me, make me laugh. Make me feel good like you seem to do.”
But I also imagine her father going ballistic to protect his daughter from some “lonely hot-to-trot widower.”
I'm not dating her, nor do I want to.
We just talk, and both enjoy it. Me especially, since it counters my dreadful childhood. “NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU!” That’s infamous Hilda Q. Walton and my hyper-religious parents. (If you need explanation click the link.)
She went to get my dog. They daycare my dog when I go into Canandaigua for groceries.
She also rearranged carpets for my dog to walk on.
I want to keep my dog off slippery floors. I think kersplating on a slippery floor is what tore his ACL.
We seem to be together on this.
Beyond that we talked and talked and talked some more. Which seems to be what women want most.
Sex is nice, but talking is more fun.
I’ve told that to a few.
For a marriage to succeed the couple has to be able to talk without putting each other down.
And be interested in what the other person says.
I think this is why my 19-year-old friend and I hit it off so well.
“Yes, what you say matters, and I wanna hear it!”
I do like her, but just as a friend. We enjoy each-other’s company.
She inadvertently found someone who listens, and happens to be old enough to be her grandfather.
“What do I need a sweetie for when I had one 44&1/2 years?”
I feel like I have to warn her the world is full of lecherous geezers and Trump wannabees hot to intimidate.

• My wife and I made 44&1/2 years. She died of cancer eight years ago.