When I was younger, everything was a disappointment. My expectations were so high and rarely met. Doesn't happen that way much any more. I don't expect much. I receive a lot.This afternoon I came home to find that the yard guys had done the mowing. The maid came late, but I made her leave on time. I cooked or, rather, I heated up things I bought at Central Market, hiding the containers, trying to make it look special.
"Should we call?" FFP asked.
"Not until seven," I insisted.
It wasn't quite seven when he called, though.
Our would-be guests are stressed. So stressed by her illness that she'd actually forgotten. But from FFP's end of the conversation, she wasn't well enough for an outing in any case.
We ate the meal with the two vacant seats at the table in what we call 'the room.' It was good. Especially the dish FFP prepared 'from scratch.' We drank some wine. We looked outside at the backyard where our friends who should have been our guests this evening had gotten married nine years ago this month.
I wasn't disappointed. But I was sad.
We turned on the outside speakers and took a drink outside. In spite of spraying ourselves with some foul-smelling moquito repellant (that was allegedly 'natural') the mosquitoes did bite.
I wasn't surprised at the mosquitoes. Or disappointed. But I did feel a bit sad. We watched the dark but wonderful movie "Notes on a Scandal" and that increased my sadness.
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