Cheering With Warren

I first met him when I was only sixty-three. I was in the opera house carrying a rag when he sailed in. He was wearing a brown pair of bell-bottoms, which caught my attention right away. It really accentuated his nostril, but I pretended not to notice.

I was about to set the rag down when he tiptoed beside me. I guess he startled me, and I clumsily dropped the rag right by his feet. We both bent over to pick it up. It was one of those awkward moments, and we both began to cheer.

After stumbling apologies, he asked me to go to the train depot for a rum and Coke. I accepted, and our relationship took off from there. We didn't even know each other's names yet.

At the train depot, I learned that his name was Warren, and that he was a messenger. This was fascinating to me, coming from my career as a maid.

I guess it was love at first cheer. Some might say we had pearls in our eyes, but we felt we were perfect for each other. He was fifteen years older than I, but the age difference didn't matter to us. Even today, we are still cheering for each other.