She looked familiar. Not movie star familiar, but I knew I'd seen her somewhere before. I'll think of it, just probably won't get any sleep until I do. I have got to stop agonizing over stuff like this, but she looks so familiar. Why does that seem to disturb me so much?
I got it! She works at the court house. She's the clerk I paid my overdue parking tickets to. She was courteous and professional, but I had this fantasy about handcuffing and frisking her. It must have been an environmentally induced emanation. Well she seems to be alone, 'go offer to buy her a drink or something' I said to myself.
"Hi, you probably don't remember me, but you made paying my overdue parking tickets almost painless yesterday."
She said, "You're right I don't remember you."
"Can I buy you a drink, to say thanks for your courtesy?"
She said, "Thanks, but I'm meeting someone."
'But', the great bubble burster. I excuse myself and notice that she has a rather small butt perched on the bar stool. Later another guy moves in next to her, and after a minute also moves away. I guess women get used to this kind of behavior, it would wear on me. My attention drifts back to the overhead music and my half-gone drink. When the waitress checks back on me, I glance up and see the 'clerk' is still sitting alone. I order another drink from the waitress, then ask the waitress if she would invite bar-stool-chic to my booth. The waitress relays the message, and I see her look in my direction. She gets off her stool and walks my direction.
"You don't take 'no' for an answer, do you?" She says.
"Sure I do, I just thought you would be more comfortable waiting for your friend here. I'll leave when he arrives, and you can have the booth. At least you won't get hit on every ten minutes."
"Suppose you leave now?"
"That wouldn't keep the guys from trying to pick you up, it would just corner you."
"You got this all figured out." Was the first time she didn't sound defensive.
"Naw, it's just a consequence of have been raised with a modicum of manners, but you aren't obligated to accept." With that I turned my face back to my drink. Another idea that went from bad to worse. She walked back to the bar, to find that the bartender had cleaned up her spot. I guess her luck isn't any better than mine. I did get that fantasy again about handcuffing her, but this time it came with a strip search. Who knows; a couple more verbal barbs, and it could escalate to a cavity search. I need to find another kind of place to meet people. Bars are depressing. I finish my drink in much less time that I should have, leave a tip and head out of the bar. When I reach my car, she is about five meters behind me, holding her purse with both hands.
"Can I get a ride home from you?"
"I can think of a number of reasons why that's a bad idea." I say.
"I'm sorry I was rude in there. My date apparently isn't going to show up, and I need a lift home."
"A taxi? The bartender can call one for you." She hasn't got the corner on rude, but . . .
"I'm headed south along the river. I'm going for a bite to eat. You're welcome to come along."
"Sounds great," was what she said. What she meant was 'serves the asshole right'. But I didn't figure that out until later. My attention to manners had been at the expense of my understanding the politics of this dating game. When you're stupid, you're doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past and my Deja Vu sense of a pending calamity had been anesthetized by the alcohol consumed this evening.
I open the passengers' door for her, and begin another weekend misadventure. Dinner was a couple of 'Chicago Style' hot dogs, onion rings and soft drinks. For those who don't know what a 'Chicago Style' hot dog is, imagine a conventional tubular ground meat product and poppy seed bun, that makes a serious detour through the salad bar. Most anything except lettuce is fair game, especially hot peppers. There's not much point in eating something, if you're not going to notice it's taste. Heart burn not withstanding.
She didn't talk much about the date that stood her up, except to say that it was someone from work that she had been seeing on and off for the past two months. Apparently they had differing opinions on how serious this relationship was becoming. I asked if she wanted to stop by the local bowling alley, I wasn't into bowling, but did like the air-hockey table, and suggested it would be a safe diversion.
She said "Okay." Her name is Leslie Pemperton. She is about sixty-four inches tall, and generally what I would describe as 'skinny'. This evening she is wearing cowboy/girl boots, a short denim skirt, 'oatmeal' cotton shirt with embroidery around the front and back yoke and down the button placket. Her light brown hair rests on smallish shoulders, and down her back maybe an inch or two. I complement the stitch work on her blouse. She gives me a suspicious look.
"My dear departed wife used to spend a lot of time at her sewing machine doing that kind of stuff to her clothes." I say, and her look changes.
"Your wife? Did she die?"
"No; just departed, with her half of our assets I might add." I smiled; bad joke, but a joke none the less. She smiled, but didn't laugh. "The divorce was final almost three years ago."
"Are you married now?" I couldn't tell if it was suspicion or concern I read in her eyes.
"Oh no, that kind of took the wind out of my sails. Plus it takes a while to get back into dating." I said.
"Any children?" I shake my head no, and she lets the topic drop, maybe she can tell it wasn't my favorite subject. Some guys, that's all they talk about, like it was some kind of batting record. Personally, it feels like being the pitcher who loses a no-hitter, all that effort and nothing good comes from it.
Her reflexes are very good. I win at air-hockey, but she makes me work for it.
"Couldn't you let me win just once?" Was her complaint after the fifth game.
"Sorry, but I don't know you that well." And I smiled to soften the retort.
"Well I'm certainly glad we weren't betting anything on this."
"Yeah, you'd have run out of money or clothes, Ha!"
"That's it, maybe I should show a little cleavage to distract you, is that it?" Her eyes twinkled when she said that.
"Oh sure missy, and you have as little to show as anyone I know."
"I'm not flat. I'm petite."
"Of course you are, and pretty too." Time to end this before I go from jester to jerk.
"What time do you have to be home?" I ask, to change the subject.
"No curfew, but I need to use a phone so my roomie won't worry." She returns some minutes later and says her bunk partner wasn't home and there were no messages on the answering machine. "What would you like to do next?" I hate it when they beat me to the question, puts the ball so squarely in my court again.
"Let's see what's playing at the movie house." I volunteer to treat.
Horror movies are not my forte, but when she says she hasn't seen this one yet, I get the impression she enjoys them. I get a popcorn to share and a soft drink to wash it down with, then we go looking for some seats. She says that she doesn't have her glasses and could we sit towards the front. That ended up being a good idea. It helped me feel more like a kid, when younger I would sit down front to get the 'full' picture. The screen would fill my peripheral vision making the experience more complete somehow.
She gave me three bruises over the course of the next two hours. But I didn't spill anything. Sitting alone with her in the dark, I began to notice how good she smelled. That brought back memories of happier days. Eventually I snuck my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close when the music signaled that a surprise was coming. That had the additional benefit of reducing the likely-hood of being bruised further.
We walked out of the movie with our arms around each others waists. That was when she caught a glimpse of 'her date' for the evening. She went ballistic. He was with a blonde who was showing a lot of cleavage. Leslie stomped over to his date and punched her in the face. I could hear it from where I was. Then she turned to "Jack" and stomped on his foot. She yelled something at him that didn't register with me. I was busy closing the distance between us. I grabbed her around the waist from behind and began pulling her toward the exits. She is screaming at the startled couple now for all she is worth, and I figure we're going to get arrested. I've still got her around the waist when I reach my car, and she is still very agitated.
"If you don't calm down, I'll handcuff ya and throw you in the trunk." I tell her. She gives me a strange look, like I'm the one who's a lunatic.
"Go ahead. I dare you." She says.
Well you got to be careful what you ask for in this world. I pop the glove box open and show her the stainless steel bracelets, so she'll get the idea I can make good on the threat. She calms down, turns around and puts her hands behind her back. She wants to call my bluff. She's so skinny I have them in the next to last notch, but the 'double-lock' seems to be holding okay.
"Are you sure you want this?" She just walks to the back of the car.
I open the trunk, spread my picnic blanket over the spare tire well and lift her in.
"Last chance to change your mind." She just closes her eyes, and I close the lid.
I have never driven so carefully in my entire life, as I did the next fifteen minutes. You would have thought I was transporting nitroglycerin or raw eggs. I didn't know where she lived so I brought her to my apartment. With my heart up in my throat I open the trunk. She's lying there with this big smile on her face.
"That was great." She says. I'm thinking what a nut case, and I'm still trying to form an apology for doing this to her.
"Have you got any more bondage stuff?" She sounds like a kid that got locked in a candy store. "I would really like to play with you." She sounded sincere.
