I swear to goodness, I thought I was through with the duck tales!
We went to our local Golden Corral for a relaxed Saturday-evening dinner, and had quite a nice meal---I was in the mood for some good baked ham, and they haven't had it in quite a while. Tonight they did, so I had a lovely slice, with some marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes, some stalks of perfectly-steamed broccoli, and a bowl of papaya and cottage cheese.
We talked long and leisurely, then had dessert: Red velvet cake and a squeeze from the frozen custard dispenser for him; brownie pie in a tiny individual crust for me. Lovely, fudgy, home-cooked taste, like the fudge on the Hershey's box.
We always people-watch, and tonight was no exception---we saw nice little families, enjoying a night out together, couples who talked animatedly, others which could have each been alone at the kitchen table, eating their solitary meal. We also always make sure to speak to the manager, for he's a kind fellow, quite jovial and courteous and just the perfect host, with quite possibly the second-worst haircut in the Northern Hemisphere.
It's always there, and I try not to look---he's quite a large man, tall and imposing, impeccably groomed and really nice-looking, but for that hair. It's always shorn WAY high, with the back neckline up almost to the top of his ears, no sideburns at all, and all the rest mowed into what would be High&Tight, were he a military man.
And tonight, I didn't see him til we were leaving---as we got near the door, I leaned into Chris' side, pretended to have a romantic little moment whispering in his ear, cheek to cheek, and we headed out. What I'd said was, "Tell me he doesn't look like that porcupine boot-scraper we had several years ago."
And he did, bless his heart---his hair was at the brush-stage, still shorn way high, but long enough to sorta bounce when he walked, and he looked for all the world like the little metal porcupine fellow with the BIG round brush for quills which sat at the back door for years.
And as we stepped out the door and round the corner toward the car, not a soul was in the parking lot, just a sea of cars, and about twenty feet in front of us on the pavement, was a pair of mallards, walking away. I called out softly, "Maurice!! Velveeta!! Come on, Come on!"
They turned and walked right up to my feet. It was all I could do not to go back in and grab a hunk of cornbread from the bread trolley. We rode away, looking back at that incongruous little couple, waddling toward the pond through that twilight parking lot.