My wife, Becky, passed away. I’m not sure of what. And some friends decided, after a period of mourning, of course, that they’d set me up on a date with Jennifer Aniston.

To my surprise, she looked younger in person, sitting across from me at a table in the bar at Chili’s. Much younger than me.

“Chips are free in the bar,” she said.

“Wow, really?” I pretended this was news to me.

I ordered queso and a side of blue cheese dressing and when they both arrived I asked if she minded me mixing them together or if she preferred her cheese untainted by more cheese.

She laughed. “Sure, whatever, go ahead, I’m in!” And laughed some more.

I told her our couple name in the tabloids would be Shennifer or Jaun, which would be confusing for Spanish speaking readers so in the end folks would probably just go with Shennifer.

She laughed.

She laughed a lot on our date.

And told me what a great guy I was and how lucky Becky was to have had me for so many years.

Thus I had to break up with Jennifer Aniston. After we finished our meal and she paid, of course.

I broke up with her for being young, dating me out of pity and pretending I was very funny. Which, outside of a dream, would not bother me in the least.

No more chocolate cake before bedtime. My nocturnal date life is more reasonable without it.