Big John Hudson burst through the front door of Sarah’s Diner and tossed his ball cap down on the big round table. The first words out of his mouth asked the age-old question, “How do you know when you’ve met the right woman?”

None of the other members of the Circular Conversation Breakfast Club bothered to shift focus from their sumptuous repast of eggs (anyway you want them), piles of crispy bacon strips, savory sausage in links and patties (for the indecisive gourmet in all of us), mounds of biscuits smothered in rivers of gravy and bottomless cups of fresh brewed coffee (but no fruit). It was the group’s shared sentiment that Big John’s latest delusion of romantic conquest — and he has had several such moments — was no reason to slack off from their calorie and cholesterol calisthenics.

“Seriously, how do you know?” repeated John. He didn’t really want an answer. He just wanted one of the guys to ask him about the woman he recently met — and they were not biting.

“Why would you ask any of these guys?” scoffed Sarah, as she scowled and refilled Harry’s coffee. “He wouldn’t know the right girl if she sat down right in front of him.”

“I met this woman,” began Big John.”

“What a surprise,” Jimmy interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You’re always meeting some woman on the internet. It is always the same. She sends you a seductive picture, and you show it to us. She tells you a fish story about how you are a stud muffin and how wonderful things could be if you sent her $175 for bus fare. She evaporates into the ether, and you are out $175.”

“I didn’t meet this one on the internet,” John offered in defense. “That was only one time … and it was only $150.”

“The two biggest ones were $200 each,” Mort added.

The group placed bets regularly on how much Big John would spend on his internet “girlfriends” before they disappeared with his hard-earned cash.

“I’m in for a Lincoln,” Firewalker said as he slid a five-dollar bill towards Mort. “Same bet as last time.”

Firewalker won the most recent pool, pocketed $25, and generously offered to buy a round of coffee.

“You must admit, John,” cautioned Tommy Jones, the 82-year-old senior member of the group. “You haven’t had a lot of luck with women.”

“He’s had plenty of luck with women,” corrected Firewalker. “It’s just been all bad luck.”

“Neither has Harry,” Big John countered. “He’s been married and divorced more times than an Indy driver circles the Brickyard on Memorial Weekend. No one scoffs at Harry’s romantic ineptitude.”

“Ineptitude!?” Sarah blurted out. “I’ll say.” Usually, Sarah offered very little in editorial comments — choosing (wisely) to remain out of the conversations. However, this morning was not shaping up to be usual.

“I do okay,” offered Harry in a hesitantly braggadocios tone, followed up with a weak, apologetic wink aimed at Sarah.

“That’s your opinion, and it’s wrong,” she shot back.

It would appear no one noticed that the apology was not accepted and something else was going on.

“And Jimmy,” John continued in a derisive tone.

“He’s never been married. I should look at him as my dating role model?”

“I think what everyone is saying,” Tommy Jones tried to interject some seasoned and well-intentioned wisdom. “So far, your approach hasn’t worked out so well. Maybe you should change something. I don’t know what — but you should probably change something.”

Tommy was married to Helen, his childhood sweetheart, for more than 60 years. They met, fell in love, and he never looked at another woman before or after. Tommy is completely clueless on how to meet (or keep) the right woman in the 21st Century.

“This one is different,” John explained. “She picked me up in a bar, doesn’t want any money for bus fare, and keeps saying she doesn’t really like me. She’s not like the rest — I think she could be the one.”