give the gift of

I have a special friend at the market. I do not know his name, and I do not believe he knows mine (unless, of course, my name is actually tina). But we have been special friends since my first time at the market. He is sweet. Old. A bit of a lecher - in that 'good' way. (He reminds me of all those curmudgeonly old men in Ireland with purple noses frittering away their days flirting in the pub). I do not understand a word of what he says to me, but I pretend I do, which seems to be enough. I know he is of Portuguese descent (what is known locally as a 'Portagee,' said with no inflection whatsoever). He knows I'm, um .

We get on swimmingly.

And yet, this knowing one another not at all occasionally asserts itself, interrupting the flow of our otherwise smooth relationship. For instance, when he brought me sausage. Sausage. LOTS of sausage. Portuguese Sausage. Homemade.

Maybe tina eats meat...