I'm outside a restaurant in Colonial Williamsburg's Market Square -- in the full Revolutionary War regalia -- chatting it up with some high school kids who've invited me over so I may have some table space. They're a good group, although I'm a bit shocked at one teen's whisper to me to ask a girl about her tattoo. Needless to say, I did not.
Inside, the restaurant is hosting a private party for at least three dozen cheerleaders. Three of them keep looking out the window towards our group. One of the kids goes inside and tries a come-on line. He comes out and says to me, "The girl in there thinks you're hot."
I forgot to tell everybody I'm nearly double their age. But I am a colonial gentleman of Virginia, and though I am single, I respond to the lady's affection with grace and dignity -- I turn to the window where they catch sight of me, and I bow to them, left foot sweeping around my right, tricorn in hand, eyes upon them. No curtsy was returned, however. Oh, practice your honors, ladies!
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