i am standing behind the bar making a cappuccino for one of my tables.  mr. L sits in one of the bar stools as he does every sunday, drinking iced tea, reading our newspaper (which he later steals), waiting for his grilled catfish to go.

“is that a piece of gold in your pretty little nose?” mr. L asks me.

“no,” i say, turning around to look at him.  “i think it’s titanium.”

“oh,” he says, “i got that in my hip!”