I can’t believe it’s been over six months since I updated here on our elder-fabulous coffeehouse pair, Mr. And Mrs. Hollywood. I’m always quietly thrilled to see them at the Other Other Good Coffee Place; they are regulars, like I am. I think they must travel on occasion, for weeks will go by, sometimes months, when I don’t see them. But they’ve been around more the last month or so, drinking large mugs of hot tea rather than coffee, sitting in two of the rounded modern leather chairs, saying little, a bit less chatty than when I first noticed them.

Mrs. Hollywood is simply not giving into mild-mannered Grannyland. No way. Not never. I may be revising my age estimate on her…I think she’s closer to 80 than 70. A few days ago she was wearing a black Ed Hardy long-sleeved t-shirt, and I swear, I almost swear, she may have attempted to cut it shorter to belly-shirt length. You’ve never seen any woman of any age strut like Mrs. Hollywood does. She OWNS the ground she walks on, and her gaze is pure “I Don’t Give A SHIT What You Think Or Who You Are Because I RULE.” Or perhaps it’s cataracts,  I don’t know. Her ashy flippy wig of indeterminate age and style – think “Charlie’s Angels + long-haired spoiled-rotten terrier” -- is looking a little more dubious, like it needs to be dry cleaned or re-woven or spray painted or something. It’s clumpy and dirty and sexy. Today, she was a bit more reserved,  in white dress pants and a long pale yellow cardigan sweater. I smiled as I glanced down at her feet. 5" white stiletto heels.

Mr. Hollywood is no longer using a cane, I am pleased to note.  He is always dressed well; today it’s the navy-and-white striped dress shirt, white cable sweater, and navy dress pants today with shiny black loafers. He always holds the heavy coffeeshop door open for Mrs. Hollywood; often when he walks next to her, he assists her by cradling her elbow, or placing a hand lightly on her back. She usually drives their pale blue sedan, pulled in at all angles into the parking space. I wouldn’t argue with Mrs. Hollywood in traffic. No way. Not never. She’d run a bitch down, I bet.

MissSeven, on her way back the other day from the café bathroom, passed by the Hollywoods, and Mr. Hollywood called her over. She was self-dressed in multi-colored striped leggings and a tie-dye t-shirt.

“Well, look at all your colors! Don’t you look wonderful!” She smiled her second-grade missing-teeth grin at him as he continued. “Which color is your favorite?”

She pulled on her shirt and glanced down to consider the question, and then back up at him. “Pink! Today it’s pink, but tomorrow I might like something better.”

He chuckled. “That’s a lady’s choice, to change her mind!” She smiled again at him and sort of made a curtsy-ish dip, and came back to me for her brownie on the white stonewear plate with the funny shape. She thinks nothing of the exchange; for her, it is normal for all adults to be kind to her. I look at her face, pale and pure with the overcast light though the window as we sit on our stools. She lives far away from her grandparents, and sees them only once a year. Perhaps the Hollywoods have far-away grandchildren, or wanted grandkids but never got them, or maybe they are grown now but they like to remember the days. Maybe Mr. Hollywood just likes the mish-mashed anti-style of a Cletus-mouthed seven-year-old in skate shoes.

I don’t know. But I like to imagine.