Do I really want someone calling me honey?

Painting title: Why Ask Why

Sad men, incomplete with no chance for romance. Happy to dive deep into an old oil painting in search of happiness. Collectors eager to decorate their first house, smiling in hopes of getting a good deal. Wide-bodied women in the glass department moving carefully down the tight-assed aisles. A troubling clink clink and one man badmouthing many of the pieces. I would never have that in my house, measuring pieces as well as checkbooks and the staff going over last minute details just before the start. Who am I to judge another man's wife? I only see the surface, not the life they share. Did she just say she wanted a baby, a house, a family, a Mercedes SUV? Check please.

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The crow taunts the hawk in the tree exactly the same over here on the cape as they do hundreds of miles inland. So why are the people so different from place to place, when nature seems to stay the same in some ways?

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Can you explain to me why we have two boxes of chocolate flavored fortune cookies in the kitchen cabinet? Remember, it's Sophia Loren, but it's Ralph Lifshitz. It's at these times I wonder, do I really want someone calling me honey? How are your senses? Can you smell the sea air, the waitresses perfume, the coffee? There are no stories, only thoughts and ideas that could become stories. Everyone likes a story told to them, I suppose. Some seem good, some bad, some pitiful, some wonderfully rich, romantic, lovely. A real one does. Everyone, yes, you need to meet runaway, the alarm clock that runs and hides to make sure you get out of bed.