Two strangers walked into a Newport bar. They scanned the room. Any empty seats? It was a September evening, still warm with a cheerful, summer vibe. Overall, the crowd was young, the women dressed in a mix of stylish stove-pipe jeans and crop tops or sundresses short enough for a flash of undies. The guys were in uniform, well, so universal were their outfits it seemed like a uniform – Oxford shirts, jeans, and Air Birds.
An attractive blond woman with a cascade of faux pearls dangling from her ears waved the strangers over and gestured to two free seats overlooking the harbor.
The sun was low, glinting on pewter water visible between the boats docked at parallel wharves. The lightest of breezes rocked the boats and caressed bare cheeks, shoulders, and midriffs.
The strangers settled in and were greeted by an older couple tucked close to the wall – a quieter spot perfect for people-watching. “We’re the oldest ones in the place,” said the man who introduced himself as Kostas. His face was lined, yes, but he was tan, strong, and handsome. His wife, April, was martini-happy, and giggled when Kostas mentioned ages.
“I bet we have you beat,” said the male stranger.
“I don’t think so! We’re 80!” announced Kostas practically crowing with pride; he knew how good he looked. April put her hand to her mouth and giggled again.
“No way!” said the strangers… and they were being honest. April, perhaps, had had a bit of “work” done, but they both looked amazing.
Drinks were ordered and served - Dark and Stormies with muddled mint - as conversations covered home locations, children, and travel. No politics. One never knows.
As the sky darkened, the bar party ebbed and flowed like the waters in the harbor beyond. When Gus and April stood to leave, Marty and Jim, thrilled at the openings in this crowded restaurant, eased into their stools.
Jim’s dark brows arched over sparkling eyes that spoke of a kind soul. It was not surprising to learn he worked on behalf of others researching rare cancers. Marty, his wife, hale and athletic, ran a foundation, and was, like me, a cancer survivor. With that revelation, the uncomfortable skin of being strangers was shed, and the four of us raised glasses in a toast: “To good health!”
I asked Jim if continued funding was a concern and, his expression rueful, he nodded. Marty and I locked eyes. We knew the role medical research had played in our being together that night at the bar.
It was time for dinner, so we perused the menus, but a restaurant regular mentioned an unlisted dish: lobster ravioli with morel mushrooms in a champagne sauce… and four orders were submitted to the kitchen.
Meanwhile, between sips of sauvignon blanc, talk turned to Marty and Jim’s weekend plans: a wedding and their son’s beach volleyball match. We contributed news of our granddaughter’s loose tooth, mastery of her two-wheeler, and our son’s family life in Switzerland. Phones were pulled from pockets and photographs shared amid hoots of laughter and coos of admiration.
Once our dishes arrived, there was appreciative silence as delectable bites of tender ravioli, creamy sauce, and generous chunks of lobster were sampled.
After dinner, it was time to part – this group was not one to stay late over drinks. We hugged our good-byes, grateful for this chance connection, those empty seats at the bar, and the glimpse into the fullness of every stranger’s life.
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