I talked to my wife on the phone for a while, and then I ordered dinner and read my book for a while, and then I ate dinner, all in what was essentially solitude. There were a couple of folks a couple of tables over, but they were quiet, and they ignored me, and the waitstaff, once they got my order, was mainly focused on the hockey game. The Flyers eventually won, 4-3. I didn't cheer.
As I was wrapping up dinner, a party came in. A few men, a couple of women, all with the habit and air of being deeply expensive. The women take off their coats; they're wearing very expensive dresses with a very high dollar-to-square-inch-of-fabric ratio. The men are wearing artfully mussed suits. They order cocktails and talk about how they had this amazing vodka that tasted like strawberries every time they went to Prague and fill the room with the six of them.
The folks at the other table leave. I pick up my book at start reading again. Eventually, dessert arrives.
And the lively, lovely folks at the table next to mine, the one carved from a giant cross-section of a tree trunk, the ones whose every utterance drowns out Tom Petty and Roy Orbison and Bob Dylan and all of them singing together, they get onto the topic of the former Victoria's Secret model who has renounced her modeling career that she might save her loveliness for her husband's delectation, and her husband's alone. They debate this very earnestly, and very loudly, and very enthusiastically. They are still debating it as I pay my check.
And as I get up to go, one of the gentlemen says to one of his female companions, who is elegantly dressed and carefully coiffed and furiously trying to explain to him why this particular model was, in the words of another one of their companions, born "sick smoking hot", he turned to her and said, "You know, your face and her body, that would be the perfect woman."
She changed the subject.
The rich, they are different.