It’s a dine al fresco day. Susan and Jeff are enjoying lunch on the terrace at Caffe Torinno. As often is the case in large-city bistros, Caffe Torino’s terrace meets the street. Pedestrians can view your food, overhear your conversation, sniff your perfume.

“Susan, why are people staring at me?”

“Your good looks; why otherwise?”

“Mmm.”

Jeff orders the portobello; Susan orders the salmon. They both sip Prosecco, and another bottle of wine will come with lunch.

“Susan?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m telling you, every person walking past is staring at me. I see jaws drop.”

Susan leans across the patio table and pats Jeff’s worried open palm. “Relax, darling. Maybe they’re staring at me.”

“That’s certainly a possibility, I mean, you are still … attractive.”

“Mmm.” Susan sips, her thoughts neither here nor there. Maybe her brain is on break.

The server brings the wine, an impeccable rosé; Susan and Jeff, being oenophiles of some local renown, always practice pristine wine habits. Jeff tastes and approves the rosé. Susan likewise tastes and approves. The server pours, sets the bottle on the table, and goes away.

“They’re still staring,” says Jeff. “Two young ladies actually paused with their mouths hanging open.”

Susan’s hand fluffs the air. “It’s our je ne sais quoi, darling.”

“Hiding behind a bon mot is beneath you, dear.”

Susan smirks at Jeff. He’s become so picky in his older years. Words being his profession, Jeff’s always been a stickler for clichéd metaphoricals and clumsy attributions. Lately, though, he seems to pick on the most minor linguistic infraction.

“All right, then,” says Susan. “They are staring at us because of our smartness.”

“They can x-ray vision our brains?”

Susan slumps into a sigh and waves her free hand dismissively.

“Smartness in appearance. Honestly, Jeff, you get so blitheringly picky about words, and now this paranoia. I know what it is.”

“You know why everyone’s staring?” Susan nods, her lips curve a grin around the wineglass.

Jeff looks askance, his eyeballs rolling like planets seeking a galaxy.

“Ok then, Miss Shrewd Pants. Dish.”

The server materializes with their lunch. Susan and Jeff are hungry. Conversation lapses. The server freshens their wine, floats away.

Jeff wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin. Between bites, he says, “It’s still going on.”

“What?”

“The pedestrian stare. I’ve counted since the food arrived. Forty passersby, and of those, 32 stared in our direction. You’d think I was the King of England. It’s me they are staring at, Susan. Not you. People don’t stare at you like they used to, in your prime. Did I say that? Jeez, I apologize honey. I just mean that if you pay attention it’s evident people find me intriguing.”

“And, of course, you are.” More and more, he behaves like a child, Susan’s thinking. Or, is he employing a baby’s tactics to garner her attention? She panders to him. Whatever. Often he counterpanders. Is as does.

Jeff’s palms strike the table. The flatware tinkles. Susan catches the wine bottle before it capsizes.

“That’s it. I’ve had enough gawking.” Jeff stands up, slaps his napkin on the table, and swaggers onto the sidewalk. If his experiment succeeds, as final proof, passersby will redirect their stares from the terrace to him, out here, standing among them.

From the terrace, Susan watches with amusement. Men often mature more elegantly than women, Susan reflects, but they sacrifice that advantage with self-neglect, like Jeff’s slovenly belly flap, the sagging carapace of age that he ignores but she can’t without averting her eyes. Women take measures. Men’s egos generally discount “measures.” The image a person presents to the public should reflect his interior self. If you want recognition on any level, Susan concludes, present yourself as a gift. A gift attracts appreciation, one giant step toward the recipient looking into your eyes, understanding who you are. Wake up, Jeff. Tuck it in. Your outside’s battling your inside.

On the sidewalk, nobody bothers to notice Jeff, other than his blocking the path. After a while, he returns to the terrace, arms flailing.

“Maybe I am getting paranoid in my old age. We’re getting old, Susan. We’re pushing 70. We’re screwed.”

Susan says, “Make you a deal, Jeff. You embrace aging for both of us. I’ll just keep on kicking up my heels.”

The server appears, sets a silver tip salver with no check on it between Susan and Jeff. “As an apology for any embarrassment you might have suffered, your drinks and lunch are on the house.”

Susan cocks her head up, an inquisitive expression rearranging her features.

Jeff shrugs manlike, puts away his credit card, and fumbles for a cash tip. “Aw, what the hell,” he says dismissively, “I get it all the time. The stares. It’s my savoir-faire. Can’t hide it.”

The server coughs lightly. “What I mean, sir, is the embarrassment caused by your proximity to the, erm, ongoing spectacle one table over.” The server jerks his head to indicate which direction.

A couple, in this instance male and female, are engaging in fervid sexual foreplay, their meal ignored, their hands too busy with each other’s body parts.

“They’ve been at it for over an hour,” says the waiter apologetically. “We would, you know, approach them, request that they lighten up, but you know what a PC town this is. Besides, they could drop dead any minute. Who knew octogenarians could still pump blood that hot?”

“Disgusting,” opines Jeff. “Really, people ought to act their age.”