“Waiter, I’ll have some of that endearing affection,” I said, pointing toward a young couple at a nearby table. Their hands were touching, moving as they talked. They broke into blushing smiles, lost in their own world.

“Yes sir. Right away, sir,” he replied in compliant fashion. Within a minute, the maitre d’ escorted an even younger couple to a table within my sight. They tried to suppress a giggle, exchanging glances as they made their way. They seemed to be sharing an intimate secret, believing no one else could see what they so clearly felt.

This dinner was starting nicely. Now there were two sets of young lovers for the evening’s entertainment. I heard laughter from the outdoor patio. Eight people sat around a large, circular table. I noticed several bottles of wine and a red-faced gent espousing something to the captive crowd. More laughter ensued.

“Waiter,” I summoned.

“Yes sir,” he said with a magnanimous poise that was fast becoming familiar.

“I’d like one more of those,” I said, pointing to the large table, “although make it a smaller portion, please.”

“Of course, sir. Joviality for four then?” His right eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly.

“That would be fine,” I agreed. He turned and left me to peruse the rest of the crowd, still sparse on this Thursday night at the wine bar.

I was looking at two men and a woman in the latter part of their dinner, plates askew and wine bottle empty, when the maitre d’ escorted two couples to a window table. They talked excitedly, lifting menus briefly and then putting them aside in favor of the topic de jour. In response to some comment I could not hear, they each burst forth in laughter, filling the room with sound.

“Will that suffice, sir?” said the waiter, appearing suddenly at my side.

“Yes, that will do nicely.”

Two women to my left had been chatting for some time; their faces remaining rather dour. They seemed to be troubled or incapable of feeling satisfied. Their conversation turned to a debate over the desert menu.

I raised my head, ready to call for the waiter when I heard a voice from my left, “Yes, sir?”

“Ah, there you are then. I’d like two older friends sharing memories and possibilities.”

“Male or female, sir?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I replied. “Surprise me.” He bowed out with his usual “Yes, sir,” and vanished amidst the flow.

A line of people ran along the bar, most of them turned sideways in conversation with others. The bartender, apparently having met all her service obligations, was conversing in animated fashion with two women across the line of napkins and glasses. That struck me as nice: engaged with the clientele rather than aloof or detached.

“Are you through with that?” asked another waiter.

“No,” I told him. “I’ll eat the last of the Manchego cheese.” As a purposely slow eater, I was used to defending my food. He nodded and turned back toward the kitchen. I also had two olives left in my Spanish salad. They would not be wasted.

Just then I saw the maitre d’ escorting two elderly women past me to a table near the window. They walked slowly yet steadily, as if they were savoring the moment, the people, or maybe the anticipation of a good meal and conversation. Their skin was pale, yet their eyes bright and observant.

They sat, looked at each other and smiled. They stole glances around the room; then picked up their menus, pouring over the offerings with apparent surprise and delight. They talked as if comparing notes.

I looked again at the first couple I had noticed. They seemed in a quiet, comfortable dimension all of their own. I enjoyed the way they touched forearms on the table so that both hands also met, fingers intertwined. She laughed, blushed and lifted her head into a kiss. Both were oblivious to my attention.

I turned back to my own table, leaving them in their delusion of privacy in such a public place. “Waiter,” I said, catching the fellow as he returned with a drink order for the elder ladies. “I’d like just a bit of dessert.”

“Of course, sir. What can I bring you?”

“Young, in her twenties or thirties, blue eyes, a soft smile, slight bit of mischief in her eyes.”

“Blonde or brunette?” he inquired, appearing to approve of my choice.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said, then corrected myself. “I take that back: a brunette, mid-length to long.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. I wondered about the breadth of his vocabulary, then concluded that his “Yes sir” was infinitely better than being ‘86-ed’ due to the unavailability of the requested fare.

I brought the last of the Chardonnay to my lips, letting the flavor linger on my tongue. Another glass? No, it was time to go; and one was enough. Often, I found greater appreciation in less of something.

As I set my glass back down on the table, I saw her settling into a seat directly across the way. He had done well: long, dark brown hair – almost black — pulled back into a pony tail. Tall, giving her a certain elegance that suited the way she moved. Her blue eyes seemed to sparkle in the low light of the restaurant. Lifting her head, she paused as she caught me looking back at her. Then she returned her gaze to the menu, the corner of her mouth rising just slightly into a quiet smile.

“Waiter,” I said, assured that he would be within earshot. “I’ve changed my mind: I will have another glass of Chardonnay.”