Not to leave my readership hanging, here is how the rest of John Deere’s prophesy panned out:
Shortly after my breakup with Michael, one of my fellow waiters, Aris, a handsome gay man from Sparta., invited me out for a drink after work. At the bar, he asked if I would consider helping his cousin immigrate from Greece to Canada. For a considerable fee. I was still smarting from the insult of Michael’s response to my own query of marriage, so I actually considered this proposal. It wasn’t until after I met the man, realized that I couldn’t tolerate his chauvinism even over dinner, and Aris had become my lover, that John Deere’s words registered.
Aris was black-haired and profoundly sexy, and even more shocked than I was that girl flesh was more delectable to him than man flesh had been. An early pleasurable encounter with an older man had secured the notion that he was homosexual. Huh. The other waiters in that restaurant scattered when I walked by, as if my touch would render them woman-lovers. As if. A few years later, I received a letter from Aris, asking if I would consider joining him on his farm in Sparta, to marry and raise babies and chickens. I pictured glimmering white yoghurt drizzled with honey the colour of his eyes, on a blue table in the morning sun.