Not Just Whistling Dixie

Sometimes I sing.  Sometimes I hummmmmm.  Sometimes I whistle.  Tonight I stood waiting to cross Marylebone Road whistling softly (I thought) some old love song ("I Only Have Eyes for You").  The guy beside me caught my eye, smiled, and said, "Are you singing?"  I admitted I was whistling.  We started a conversation.  His name was Miguel; well, you know mine.  He was a chef in St. John's Wood.  He owned a little pizza place in Venice that his brother ran.  He insisted I come to the pub and have a drink.  I insisted I didn't.  He insisted he loved me and that I should give him my number.  No, I wouldn't.  He wanted a kiss. What could a little one hurt?  He must have my number.  No, he mustn't.  Finally, liar that I am, I convinced him I had a boyfriend.  He reluctantly left.  I smiled.  He was too young, too full of bullshit, and way too eager, but this little encounter was sweet and spirit lifting and gave me the feeling that maybe I'm not over the hill quite yet!