SonOfWill

The Kinks

At tex-mex brunch this weekend The Kinks, sipping unlimited mimosas, said, “times have changed. No longer do we have the hours to lay with our women in love.”

“This time tomorrow, I don’t, in fact, know where I’ll be,” I said, and sighed the sigh.

“Good comeback,” quipped Jeff Goldberg.

“How do you feel by what they say,” I retorted. “Will you leave the sun behind you? Or shall it stay?”

“I need to call Erica, and ask her if it’s okay if I answer,” he snapped back.

When he got off the phone, he announced to the table, “I can answer, so long as I call her Helen, and not Erica.”

We were running low on chips, though the salsa was holding up.

Donald Bartheleme and George Saunders replied, “Yes, Helen is a good alternative.”

“Then yes,” he conceded, “though the hours have been coaxed to minutes, with pockets of years, Helen and I lay. We have sailed, though not across, that endless sea.”

“You sail it?” I implored.

“We sail it.”

George Suanders teared up.