I wonder, he said. I wonder what you’d think of me if I was younger? She blushed. If my skin wasn’t wrinkled and my long gray hair black and styled.

He looked up at the television. Red Sox were winning 3-2 over the Yankees. September is a cruel month, he told her. She sipped her gin and tonic. Summer is ending, he said. A new year gets closer. And I, my dear. Well, anyway. He drank from a mug. Salt on a napkin. I just get older. He laughed.

You have any regrets? He asked the blonde. Any mistakes you wish weren’t made? She nodded and smiled. That’s not true, he said. You’re too young. Your record is clean. Only minor infractions, he told her. You broke some hearts. Mislead lovers. No, he looked at her. These are trivial matters.

I once had a wife, he confessed. No children. Just me and her. We were wild. Never got enough of each other. We’d  wake up intertwined. Holding one another.

What happened to her? She asked.

She left me, he said. God took her. As he always does. The girl nodded. She was gone in September, he salted his beer. The lager fizzed. Cancer, he said. She was Forty-five.

They both looked at the TV screen. Final score from Fenway, 5-4. Yankees win.  Another long winter for Red Sox Nation.

Yeah, he said. September is a cruel month.