drinking with a woman in which her face matters not nor the dress but what she plays on the jukebox, and if she likes al green, rolling stones, and dances in front of the juke box, sways her hips really, and isn't afraid to drop fifty cents on the pool table no matter who is running it. and then she laughs. but that's the danger in becoming an old man -- hearing a woman's laugh in your head, and having a fondness for the laugh, though not being able to connect the face to the laugh, and then you do, and your head is filled with all these laughs that aren't always so funny.
