Mulled Vine

Wrinkles wound deep furrows along his face, itself a crumpled memory of handsomer years – his eyes had however not lost their bright luster and twinkled at me now with good humour. “Don’t mind me, me boy. I’m just messin’ witcha.”

I smiled tentatively in response, my young ego more than a little bruised at his insightful mirth. “You’re right of course, Grandpa. She is a pretty fine lass with broad, child-bearing hips, but tis her mind that entrances me.”

The old man laughed out loud: “A young man who loves a woman’s mind more than her hips? Well now I’ve seen everything.”