I kissed a girl

I kissed a girl.  She's really more of a woman.  Well, she's really more of an old woman.  The fact that I'm male and have kissed a few in my day (if I'm forced to blushingly admit) isn't particularly revelatory.  I doubt this report will go platinum, but here it is:

Old Widow McGrue was sitting on her front porch on Aukland Street looking rather glum as I was meandering my way to the Savin Hill T station.  Service has been reliable recently, running on time, so I wasn't rushing in a worry that I would miss a train.  I asked the Widow McGrue what ailed her.

"Today is my wedding anniversary," she said.  "Old Man McGrue and I would have been married 53 years today if he hadn't passed away in 1997."  I happen to know from previous conversations that the old man passed away on the job a few weeks away from retirement as a stevedore at the docks in Southie.  He was crushed to death under a pallet of bananas.  What a way to go.

"You know what the worst part is?" she asked.  "The worst part is that I haven't been kissed since my dear old man left me for a better world."

I walked up the front porch steps and planted a peck on the Widow's forehead.  "It's time to start counting again," I said.

I made my way to the T station.  The Alewife train was pulling in just as I got downstairs to the platform.