A young man in a Yogurt, Please maroon shirt with a yellow collar approached our table. “Hey, Mrs. Hollowell. How are you?”

Fortunately, the name Terry Bates was embroidered on his pocket, as well as the information that he was a Yogurt, Please assistant manager. Multiply 150 students each year by thirty years, and a teacher is grateful for anything that jogs the memory.

“Hey, Terry,” I said. “How are you?”

“Fine, Mrs. Hollowell. It’s good to see you.”

“You, too, Terry.” It was true. A younger Terry Bates was emerging from the mist of memory. Back row, second from the left. Quiet.

He put three dollars on the table. “This one’s on me.”

“Why, how nice, Terry. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hollowell.”

I watched him walk away, through the group of teenagers, back behind the counter. I love you, Terry. I love every one of you. Why did I quit teaching?

Mary Alice put the three bills in her purse. “You quit because you knew ‘Beowulf’ by heart.”

Had I asked the question aloud? And had I really given that as my reason?

Then Sister said, “He’s in real estate.”

“Who is?”

“Berry West, Mouse. He’s in real estate development. You made me tell you his name, so don’t you want to know about him?”

“Absolutely. Where did you meet him?”

“At a party at the museum. How come you and Fred never come to those parties?”

“We’re not invited.”

“Really? Well, anyway, this was a wine tasting party and you’re allergic to alcohol so you didn’t miss anything. But something just told me to wear my black dress without a back. You know how those little voices just come to me sometimes? This one said, ‘Mary Alice, wear your black dress without a back.’”

I pushed my empty cup away. “Was it male or female?”

“Was what male or female?”

“The voice.”

Mary Alice scowled at me. “Do you want to hear this or not? It’s really very romantic.”

“I want to hear it.”

“Well, there I was at the museum in my black, backless dress talking to Gertrude Stacy and I heard this man’s voice say, ‘You have the loveliest back I’ve ever seen,’ and I turned around and saw this handsome man—I mean an Adonis, Mouse—walking away, and I thought he might have been talking to someone else though Gertrude said no, it was me he was talking to. So in a few minutes, I’m getting one of those little quiches you can buy frozen at Sam’s, and I hear, ‘You have four dimples in your back.’ And it was him. Berry. We’re going out to dinner tonight.”

“Four dimples in your back?”

Mary Alice beamed. “Isn’t that romantic?”

Fortunately, no answer was expected.

“He’s bound to know I’m older than he is, though.” Sister put her empty cup in mine and crumpled up her napkin.