Catfish Love For Contest

Yes, she was svelte, she was gorgeous, this gal of mine was 21, and had my heart jumping. Her photo was of a beautiful waif, with a head of red hair that had my heart pumping. We had talked a lot about catfish, both the kind that we eat, and the kind that intrudes All over the Facebook and Snapchat pages, laughing at the antics of others, some rude. “You’re probably 65,” she said, laughing after she had called and asked to meet me as the real me. “You’re probably 64,” she said. We both laughed, knowing we’d know when we met at the sycamore tree. When we arrived, at the exact same time, I instinctively knew it was her, by her walker. We were arriving with matching walkers, and completely unknown by the cardinal, a big squawker. I was 66, and she was 66 too; we had met in school over fifty-years ago. She had not changed a bit. “Hey, there,” she said with happiness. “You’re much younger than I suspected,” She gave my arm a gentle punch; damn, that girl could hit! We had a catfish dinner, and split the tab. Both knowing we had been rather bad.