Suddenly, the fact that it took three times as long to get anywhere in the Delray Beach/Boca Raton area than it did in the rest of the world—because old people are horrible drivers—didn’t bother me anymore. In fact, I started to see it as cute and charming. The idea that the old man at Red Robin was yelling at the waitress because she had brought him real butter and not light canola oil spread for his baked potato wasn’t annoying; instead, I saw that he loved his wife so much he wanted to stay alive and be with her for as long as possible. The fact that it took Jack and I almost fifteen minutes to get from one end of the mall to the other because we were behind an old woman with a walker wasn’t frustrating; it just gave us time to gaze into each other’s eyes as we enjoyed the cheesy piano player playing “It Had to Be You.” “Red, you’re so much fun to make out with,” he said one evening as we came up for air. We had driven to the beach to watch the sunset, but because a huge downpour started when we got there, we were stuck in the Buick.
