The venue switches for the evening, to one much further from home.   I'm down on Route 73, in Evesham, outside of Marlton, in some Bennigan's knockoff known as Mother McCree's.   I'm sitting here, in a booth, with a bottle of Guinness and a tray adorned with a mountain of cheese filled potato skins in front of me.   Across from me, sits Dawn Rice, done up for the evening.   She looks very nice in a powder blue silk blouse.   Next to her sits a very young man, in a gray polo shirt, and an amber buzz cut.   He's got a stud in his left ear lobe.   His name's Pat.   Pat's Dawn's date for the evening...and, as it turns out, date for many previous evenings.   Pat is eight years younger than Dawn.   It certainly shows.
"So, Pat," asks my wife, Carolyn, as she reaches for a potato skin, "what do you do?"
"Going through the Burlington County police academy."
Shit, I could've told you that, Carolyn.   All Dawn knows are cops, and Troopers.   She came from that kind of family.   "You're getting out soon, right?"  I ask.
"Yep.   I might have an in on an opening down in Medford."
"So, how'd you meet?"   One of my wife's favorite questions.   Always good for at least a half hour of good, animated conversation...or longer.   Also leads to other subjects, too.  
"At a party at Bob's."   That would be Dawn's brother, Bob Housemartin, the State Police sergeant who's come into the diner before.  "We started talking, and we wound up talking all night," Dawn continues, sipping a Long Island iced tea.
"That's kind of how we got started ourselves," Carolyn replies.
I take a potato skin, and put a tuft of sour cream on the top of it.   "Look, Pat," I say.   "I'm gonna be brutally frank."  The girls look at me, intently.   "You're involved now with a woman eight years older than you are, with three kids, an invalid husband wounded in Iraq, and a sister-in-law who hates her and would love to see nothing less than those kids being taken away from her...I'm not trying to ruin anything here, but-"
"Oh, I understand, no worries."
"I'm just telling you that this ain't your normal situation here."   Dawn and Carolyn are staring at me.
Pat breathes in, and smiles.   "I know that."
"I'm not trying to interfere, either, I want you both to know that, but this relationship isn't gonna be Easy Street."
Pat sighs.   He looks at Dawn.   "Don't care," he says.
"Okay," I say, jovially.   Dawn and Carolyn are visibly relieved.   "In for a penny, in for a pound.   I like that."
The waitress, who's name, by the way, is Penny, comes by.   Very young, very sweet, long red hair, five-eight or so.   I tell her I'd like another Guinness, while Carolyn orders another Diet Coke.   Now, the folks at Guinness remain quiet about the American propensity to think that if the product is beer, that it belongs in a refrigerator, and understandably so, but few Americans who are uninformed actually understand why Guinness is served at room temperature.   Refrigeration kills the flavor.   Besides, weather conditions in the Emerald Isle negate the need for such refrigeration.   So, Guinness Extra Stout is served at room temperature.   You want it cold, why don't you save a few bucks and order Coors Light?   They're marketing to people like you.
"George, I'm fine with all of this," Dawn says.
"I know, I know."
"Believe me, I know what I'm doing.   I have no husband anymore, I'm only a caregiver, right?"
"Yep.   No argument."
"My charge, who used to be my husband, doesn't even give two shits anymore what the fuck I do.   And, you know that."
"I understand."   Penny lays a new bottle of Guinness in front of me, with the top removed.
"And you're not gonna become a nun."
"Thanks, Carolyn," Dawn says.   She raises her bottle of Yeungling and taps Carolyn's raised Diet Coke.   Pat smiles.   "I'm gonna live my life, I'm gonna raise and love my children.   No one is gonna tell me how to live my life.   No one in Rob's scumbag family, no one on the rest of the planet."
As well no one should.  

Penny brings our orders to the table.   She's a big, strong girl with a likeable spirit.   Pat rubs his hands together, in the manner Fred Flintstone did when the waitress laid the giant rib cage on the side of his car.   Mother McCree's is crowded on a Friday night, as such establishments often are.   I sip my Guinness, and relax with my wife and friends.