Pool and Whoopie Goldberg

We walk across the street to the diviest, coolest bar in the world. We've been here twice before. Each time I've had a blast. We've met some cool people. We've played some very bad pool. We've had some hilarious moments.

We walk to bar, get drinks and get in the game of pool. Craig puts quarters up on the edge of the table. We're in next.

Of course, being a man and a woman of a certain age, as we settle in with the pool playing crowd, someone always asks "How long have you guys been married?" And Craig always answers,"We're not married. We went to school together." A non answer. It leaves a lot to be assumed. Most people assume the full answer is "We're not married. Not ot each other or anyone else. We're just friends with nothing better to do tonight, so we came here."

I understand the question. Again, we are that couple. Totally having a ball together and completely absent that look of overwhelming boredom that often comes with 20 years of marriage and the vicissitudes of married life. The demands, joys and heartbreaks of children. Career highs and lows.The constant harangue of home ownership. The constant swirl of keeping a relationship from flying into the side of a mountain. On the contrary, we walk in holding hands, smiling, and totally in sync about what is going to happen next. The young couples whose pool game we are about to join want to know what magic fairy dust was sprinkled on our heads and when.

Craig gets beers and we get into the game. He and I eventually meet everyone in the pool hall end of the bar. It's a friendly crowd. (This would never happen in my neighborhood.)

Craig takes the lead when it's our turn to play. I've played pool before but not so much that I could ever pretend to know what I am doing. I know the basic agenda. Hit the little white ball with the end of your stick and hit another ball or two with the hopes of putting a particular ball in a particular hole in the table. That is where my knowledge of the game begins and ends. I have no idea how to rack the balls to break. And if I ever did I've sufficiently pickled that portion of my brain so as to render the memory inert. I'll leave the racking to Craig. And the breaking. I don't have the coordination for that either.

I spend my "non-shooting" time socializing with all manner of people. Craig does the same. We meet at either end of the table occasionally to discuss more drinks or to flirt a little. I am having a marvy time. Even at this hour. It has to be the wee hours by now. I have drank, bocce'd and shot pool all night. I decide to sit with some people for a minute. I have worn sandals that are not designed for playing pool.

I pull up a chair next to two young, heavy set people. One has a gorgeous manicure with fancy nail art and is wearing a very cool dress. The other is in shorts and a T-shirt, has braids and no eyebrows. Bears a striking resemblance to Whoopie Goldberg. I am not at all sure whether it is a man or a woman. It's the boobs that throw me. And the somewhat falsetto voice. I have had too much to drink to be completely confident about the gender roulette wheel.

Whoopie leans over to me and asks me my name and Craig's. I tell him. He asks how long we've known each other and I tell him that we met in school but really only began to spend time together in the last few years.

"He loves you," Whoopie says.

I touch Whoopie's hand (Another confusing matter. Whoopie has very smooth hands. Not at all like a man's) and look into his or her eyes. "What makes you say that?"

The truth is, we have been to this divey bar 3 times, and this is the third time that someone has spent a few minutes with Craig and me and has felt compelled to tell me that in spite of Craig's answer about who we are to each other, that they feel that he loves me.

Whoopie does not hesitate. "A guy knows when a guy is in love." (Thank you for answering the gender question...)

Curious and skeptical, I ask him what the hallmarks are. What has tipped him off? Because clearly I am in the dark about anything remotely resembling Craig's deepest emotions.

Without missing a beat, Whoopie rattles off his observations. "You should see the way you look together! You are something to see! So happy. You really dig each other. And don't you see the way he looks at you, girl? My God, he smiles from ear to ear the minute you start talking to him. It's like he can't believe his luck. And when it's your turn to shoot, he takes care of you and roots for you. When you made that last shot he was beaming. All proud like a peacock."

The girlfriend chimes in. "He's looking at you now. Don't look. His face says everything. He thinks he's the luckiest guy in the world tonight."

Whoopie senses my curiosity. "You didn't know all this?" I shake my head no.

Girlfriend has made a few observations herself. "He touches you a lot. When you walk by, his hand is on your hip. When you went to the restroom he took your beer and then held your hand for a bit as you walked away. He never misses a chance."

"Is that gross?" I ask. I have no idea what people think. I barely know what I think on a good day.

"No," she says. "It's sweet. It's not like he's manhandling you. They are sweet gestures."

I tell them both about the other two men who have essentially said the same thing. I'd never asked them to elaborate. I'm glad I have asked them to.

Girlfriend says, "Don't you think that he loves you? Don't you feel it?"

I say that I think I do, but he's not saying it.

Whoopie has one more bit of wisdom.

"Yes, he is."