Twilight creeps softly across the grass, and sunwarm rocks
by the stream are cooling as the day slips away. An old man
sips a martini with three large olives waiting in line on a

cocktail skewer. He remembers a bartender told him once,
that the first olive should be eaten after the initial sip, the
second halfway through, and the last one with the final sip.

This shows self-control and restraint. And at that same bar
long ago, he met a young girl, far too young for him, but well
on the way to her third drink. He remembers her hair falling

wild on her forehead, lipstick bubblegum pink, head full of
dreams and madcap ideas, her sexy low-cut dress. But when
they left the bar that night, she was already drunk, and he

didn’t want to take advantage of such a young girl. So, he
put her in a taxi and paid the driver enough to take her home.
She kissed him long and hard, wanting him to come along

and have another drink at her apartment, but he kept saying
no. She persisted, like a child begging for one more bedtime
story, until the cab finally pulled away. And now, thirty years

later, he sits on his backyard patio at dusk, finishing his
drink, eating his third olive, wishing he had gotten into that
taxi. It would have been like eating all three olives at once.