how very lucky to be a girl

I stood outside smoking a cigarette when he pulled up on his motorcycle. A tall, shaven-headed stranger parked, dismounted, lit up and took a seat on the curb beside me. We talked for a bit, went inside for a drink and decided to leave. Together.

He handed me a helmet and I got on the back of the motorcycle of the man I’d met only moments ago. It was just that cinematic. And potentially stupid.

Of course, it didn’t turn out to be stupid. He came home with me that night and was nothing short of a gentleman. A one-night-stand gentleman, but still, a gentleman. He stayed the night, which surprised me a bit, and when I woke the next morning I asked if he wanted a cup of coffee.

Sure. That’d be great.

I got up, threw on jeans, a t-shirt and my havainas and ran across the street to Starbucks, where I bought us each a cup of coffee, some pastries, and the Sunday Times. I don’t like touching newspapers. Years as a paper girl have resulted in my jumping at any chance to have someone else touch them and read the good stuff to me. I returned home hoping he might be that someone.

We sat in the garden that sun-soaked Sunday, drinking our coffee, reading the paper and talking. The brightest star made its way across the sky in a blink and it was five o’clock. I could hardly believe that we’d spent all night and day together. I’d really enjoyed his company. I liked him. He looked at his watch.

Do you wanna get some dinner?

 

That would be great. Can you give me a minute to change?

 

Of course. Take your time.

 

No way I was taking my time. I’d never see this guy again if he actually knew how much time I could spend getting ready. I ran inside, brushed my teeth, changed, powdered my face, put on mascara, blush and a little lipgloss, and threw my hair up in a speed that would suggest I had at least at least eight arms. I really wish I could do that more often.

We got back on his bike and he took me to his favorite restaurant. They knew him there. He went there every Sunday, he told me. He ordered for the both of us and we sat, enjoying a delicious meal and conversation. He gave me a ride home as the summer sun was setting.

He pulled up and idled just outside my apartment.  I removed my helmet and gave it to him along with my number.

I had a great time with you, Staci, but I just got out of a relationship.  I’m not ready for anything new, so I probably won’t call.

 

Well, take my number.  Just in case.

He kissed me goodbye, watched me climb the steps to my front door and rode off. I knew he wouldn’t call. But I hoped he would. He didn’t.

Years passed.

I was on the phone with my friend Ginger. She was excited. I could hear the kick in her step as she described the man she’d been dating. The details of him were shrouded in the stories of their meeting and of their first several dates. He sounded like a great guy for her. He sounded smart and kind and interesting. He sounded worldly. He sounded tall. And shaven-headed. He sounded like…

Ginger, is his name Emile?

Silence.  I knew it was.

Um. I have a confession. I fucked your boyfriend.

Ginger might be my only friend to whom I could say such a thing and who would have a good laugh about it. And she did. Thankfully. We both did.

She and Emile were a much better match than Emile and I ever would have been. I was happy for her. They were together for years, and although that first get-together with the three of us was beyond awkward, Emile and I grew comfortable around one another in our new roles. Sadly, life and circumstances change and their relationship couldn’t weather the storms. They broke up recently.

After taking some time to heal, Ginger was back in the saddle, online and dating regularly.

I texted her on Saturday.

are you working thursday? wanna get together?

 

Not working, might have a date but it is with a guy who I went out with once and we could certainly add him to the mix. He’s very funny, he’s a writer.

Holy fucking shit.

Ginger, is his name Jacob?

 

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