For those who may not know it, I am quite aware of how lucky I am to be married to my Angel.

Especially when she tolerates my eyeing other women.

After our viewing of The Two Towers at the Rialto in Central City earlier this month, it was a simple walk across the intersection and down the block to our favorite Italian restaurant in our state.

They were, according to our waiter, unusually busy. And we didn't help at all. While the wife and I were satisfied with items off the menu (chicken fettuccini and a New York steak in merlot sauce), wife's godson had to complicate the waiter's life by asking for double chicken on his fettuccini order. And eldest son wanted chicken marsala. A fine choice, except that it is no longer on their menu. But he got it, just the same.

Waiter was new (his crib sheet of the day's specials and soups fell out of his tablet), and forgot about the bread and olive oil until the wife asked.

But as we waited for our meals, and verbally harassed wife's godson, I took a look around.

And there, in a booth across the room, was a stunning brunette. Shoulder-length hair, but with that striking bone structure in her face so indicative of a celtic heritage. In a light faux-leopard skin print blouse. Looking and listening, enraptured, to the grey-haired man across the table, as if they were the only two people on the planet.

Absolutely stunning.

Drew an imaginary map on the table cloth to direct the wife�s vision to the woman, without staring and pointing, and she had to agree with my assessment. Even though she doesn't go that way.

The food was excellent, as usual, although the mushrooms a bit oily on my steak. And there was again zucchini mixed in the vegetables, eliminating that item from the wife's repast. Still a fine meal, everything we could have hoped for. Accompanied with smooth raspberry tea.

But my eyes drifted often to the right, discretely enjoying watching the woman. Until I found my view blocked by Governor Mike (So called because his folks named him Mike and, well, he used to be Governor. Good one, too.), as he stood and talked to the folks at the table in between our booths.

The couple across the room left a little before we did. So I got to see her don her jacket.

A faded, beaten denim jacket. The kind you wear when heading out to feed the horses. Not at all the kind you would expect at an evening dinner in a classy restaurant, but somehow still appropriate in this place, in this town, in this state.

We topped off dinner with the double-fudge cake, the dessert and plate neatly cross-hatched with thin, red lines of raspberry sauce.

Delish.