The clerk at St Vincent de Paul's asked a birdlike old man to help me carry out the second hand end tables I found for Tessa's first apartment. He wheezed heavily. His pink nose and cheeks became scarlet from the effort and weight of his burden. I felt terrible they had him help me. I was perfectly capable of making two trips to the car.
He fussed about getting them to fit, then closed the door with a flourish. Taking his gloves off he peered up at me with a twinkle in his eyes. With much brevity, he asked me if I was a sugar gal or a sugarless gal. Laughing, I told him my mama always taught me never to take candy from strangers. He cackled as he unzipped his ancient fanny pack. It was stuffed with varied brands of single wrapped butterscotch candy. Possibly collected from gratuity bowls by cash registers?
He gallantly offered me three from the sugar gal side. The moment required a grave bow but I gave him a warm hug - one that lifted him clean off the ground. He wheezed rapturously.
Too bad it was so cold out. Our bundled condition kept me from seeing his feet. I'm sure they were hairy - a misplaced hobbit sent to cross my path - freshening my weary day.
After fifty it is permissible to take candy from strangers. Do.