The man is wearing thick bifocals. The woman, I guess, forgot her glasses at home. He patiently reads her the print on the menu, too small for her to decipher alone.
"We'll both have Chicago dogs," he says.
"And Pepsi Colas," she follows.
I ask them because I'm curious. Of course I'm curious. "How long have y'all been married?"
"Sixty two years," the man says with a proud smile. I feel my face muscles do a smiling dance.
"Oh wow," I say. "How old were you when you got married?"
"We were eighteen," he answers, those yellowing teeth flashing me again. "It was during the Korean War. Y'ever heard of it?"
I nod like that isn't a stupid question. "Yes sir," I answer.
"Well we young men were getting drafted," he says. "That was the thing to do then. Get yourself a wife so you had something pretty to come home to."
If I could describe the way his wife's eyes light up...it's less like a Christmas tree and more like Rockafeller Plaza.
He pats her hand. "Yes ma'am," he says, staring into the air. "Sixty two years."
"Congratulations to you," I say. I walk away slow, and hide my face as I round the corner. Then I start to cry.
