My sister lives on the West Coast and she sent me this little story in email the other day. Warmed my heart.
Saturday night Gene and I went to the symphony . . . while I was handing our tickets to the ticket taker Martin, a woman approached . She was quite elderly and very stooped over. In her hair which was a bit wild, she had several exquisite hair combs. Her suit was totally threadbare, but was probably a real knockout a quarter of a century ago. No partner, no purse, nothing but this darling dilapidated presence.In the most beautiful diction she asked Martin if he would mind terribly if she “popped in and used the powder room.” He said, of course not, Madame, go ahead. After she left his side, I said, she’s sneaking into the symphony isn’t she? And he said, “every Saturday night.”