“You are so sweet”

—Saturday, go to supermarket, buy groceries for the coming week.
I walked away from the fish freezer — no haddock — headed toward a pretty lady with gorgeous eyes.
“Don’t say anything,” I said to myself.
I angled around her, and she didn’t move.
“I normally don’t say anything to anyone,” I said to her; “I normally keep to myself.
But your eyes are gorgeous.”
“Why thank you,” she whispered, caressing my sleeve.
“You are so sweet,” she added.
Did it again, readers, and I didn’t get smacked.
“Take the risk!” advises my bereavement-counselor.
“DO IT!” “DO IT!” “DO IT!” says the little voice in the back of my head.
The voice my hyper-religious parents and neighbor Sunday-School superintendent declared was the Devil-Incarnate.
But I am so glad I did that: make both me and her feel great.
Things are way different since my wife died. Ten years ago I wouldna said a word.

• As a result of my wife’s dying, I see a bereavement-counselor once a month. She’s become more psychiatrist, except she can’t prescribe drugs. Most times we talk about my dreadful childhood, and my recovery therefrom.