Wild Oats

She would speak of everyone’s virtue, though she possessed none of her own. She would speak in kind, rising tones, punctuate conversation with ascent, and generally say nothing worth breathing. To her interlocutor, to him or her locked in the stockade of etiquette, she was insufferable, and they suffered for it.

“Yes, oh yes. He is just lovely, the best, really.” She said. “You know, yes, I know, I know. It’s amazing he isn’t married. A man like that ought to be married, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes,” a voice answered. “He is nice, but you know he has a different girl on his arm every evening.”

“Oh,” her voice matched her rising brow. “Oh, don’t speak like that. He’s just, what do they call it? He’s just trying to sort it all out. Sowing a few wild oats, that’s it, that’s what they call it.”

Her interlocutor blushed. “Do you know what that means?”

Her eyebrow fell to a furl. “Why, now that you ask, I don’t think I do. I thought I did.”

“Maybe we should talk about something else.”

“Well now you have me all curious.”