love advice from pete

my therapist
who is also my bartender,
pete,
is quite generous with his advice.
he puts an ice
cold apple martini on the bar,
slice of granny smith
apple
on the rim and pushes it towards
me.
go easy, he says, it was a heavy
pour.
I gulp the first sip, and wipe
my mouth with my sleeve.
thanks, I needed that.
so what's up, he says.
wiping the bar off with a rag.
the place is almost empty,
just me and him.
it's almost closing time.
there's an old couple in
the corner making out.
she's taken her teeth out
and set them on the bar,
and he's using his cane to stay
upright in his stool.
ahhh, to be in love, I say to
pete. he laughs and gives me a bowl
of pretzels.
they just met about an hour
ago.
wheel chair convention
at the holiday inn across
the street. she just had
a birthday, 73.
good God, I say, and take another
drink.
just shoot me, I tell him,
if that's me in a few years.
he laughs. I think you said
that to me ten years ago.
no luck out there? some good,
some bad. some horrendous.
mostly catch and release, I
tell him. it's brutal out there.
the herd has definitely thinned,
figuratively speaking, of course.
stop looking he says.
standing in front of me, staring
right into my eyes.
huh? I say. taking another swallow
of my martini.
trust me, he says, stop looking
for awhile. just do this one
thing, and then you'll see
what happens.
I look over at the couple in
the corner, he's got his hand
on her knee, creeping up her plaid
dress and she's tugging on
his yellow necktie. his toupee
has slipped a little, and his
face is red as the exit
sign in the corner.
they going to be okay, I ask pete.
yeah, he says, they'll be fine.
i just had my CPR certification
renewed,
and I have a defibrillator behind
the bar just in case.