We found a quiet, comfortable spot under a thick knobby oak, away from the flock of people assembling close to the embankment with their folding chairs and ice coolers.
“You look good,” Dave said, tossing me his fresh-faced grin and slugging down a Bud Light.
I smiled, smacked the small pouch of my protruding stomach, and shoved my hand through my thinning brown hair. Ben and Jerry kept me company when Dave left. I was a touch out of shape here in my late thirties, but I was content. You didn’t have to have one-percent body fat to be beautiful, I thought. Six-pack abs and muscle-bound bodies were overrated in a country obsessed with implants and youth and Botox faces. But I admired Dave anyway for his dogged persistence for staying active—and handsome.
He handed me his beer. He had aged
