"OMG, Grandpa, don't be such a Quirkasaurus!"
Emmet Swann didn't stop dancing, even as his grandchildren tried to pretend not to know him. There was a fine-looking dame, a grandmother or great aunt giving the parents a respite, smiling in his direction, and it put him in mind of the dance halls of his youth.
He winked at her and watched her stifle a flirtatious giggle. "What's a Quirkasaurus, lad? I don't remember that episode of the natural history documentary."
Rose, named for his sweet Rosalie, dead these past twenty years, tried not to roll her eyes. "A senior citizen trying to be cool, obviously. FYI, it isn't working!"
The dame, wearing the campaign service ribbon of a former WAC member, strolled over after a final admonishment of her own charges. "Oh, I don't know about that. Got space on your dance card, Soldier Boy?"
He bowed over her hand, like he was back in Paris in 1938. "For you, Nurse, my dance card is empty."
They ignored the chorus of dismay and horror, swinging into a barber shop quartet that they were definitely too old for, and quickly changing into a simple foxtrot.
Ah, what were grandchildren for, if not to embarrass? It was far better than trying (and failing) to be "hip with the young'uns", as the other retirees at the bowls club lamented.