Emma reached out to me through a social media platform. During the subsequent three months, our interest in one another mutually grew. She lived in Denver and me in Memphis which stunted our relationship's growth. Though we traded stories, photos, video calls and came to appreciate one other's counsel, gaps remained. Our minds fill in the voids that exist in our relationship with another person. Did I know what she was like in person? No. But I imagined it.
Emma had a powerful effect on me emotionally. Adrenaline surged through my body whenever I saw she read one of my chats, my heart racing each time. My now ex-wife doused that feeling five years earlier when, after a marriage of seven years, she carried on a cyber-affair with three different men. I never recovered. I never believed I could trust again. Yet, here I was, experiencing those feelings again. That elation from Emma's attention never faded.
Lack of physical presence created a wall which no other form of communication could breach. There simply was no more room for us to advance together unless we actually could be together, in the same room. We needed to touch each other, we needed to smell each other, and we needed to taste each other. Only then could she and I know if something truly existed between us or if our minds simply filled in the blank spots with what we desired. We needed to meet.
I flew into Denver on a summer Tuesday evening. From our fifteen thousand foot approach, the sun still shown across the horizon. But as the plane descended towards the runway, the Rocky Mountains' shadow swallowed us up along with a darkening landscape. A rough bump and dull thud announced our arrival to the 737's occupants. My heart rate picked up and palms ever so slightly moistened at the thought of finally meeting the women with whom I had an electronic relationship.
Emma cooks. And when I say she cooks, I mean she really cooks. Pictures of her dishes and reactions from those who sampled her cuisine raved. So, when we agreed to meet, a meal at her apartment seemed to be a natural fit for our first face-to-face. Sounded scrumptious, but I had to help too.
I checked the Lyft app on my phone to see where my ride was.
"Five minutes. Almost perfect timing."
In the month before our rendezvous, Emma and I worked through the logistics of our meet. No, she would not pick me up at the airport. Taking the risk of physically being with someone you didn't know in your apartment was bad enough, but to then be stuck in Denver's I-70 traffic with them too? Nope. I said I would arrange a ride to Emma's condominium. The challenge in setting that up was one of scheduling. Weather, mechanical problems, and thick air traffic all made scheduled arrival times somewhat of a crap shoot. Instead once I arrived at my layover in Kansas City and new my flight was leaving on time, I secured my ride,
The map on my phone showed my ride's location, just up the street. A clean, gun-metal gray, Honda Accord crept along in the drop-off lane, its driver scanning each of us standing along the curb. Hanging from the passenger visor, a pill shaped LED sign, "lyft" flashed in fuchsia colored letters.
I waved and the Accord stopped, its passenger window magically rolling down.
"James?"
"Yep."
"Bags?"
"Nope."
"Front or back?"
"Front."
I heard the passenger door's car lock click open. I pulled the door handle and carefully swung it open, watching the bottom edge. Accords had low clearance and more than once, I'd scraped a passenger door across the top of a curb because the driver pulled too close. I didn't need any driver drama marring my night.
I flopped into the passenger seat, thankfully, the last rider had already pushed it as far back as he could. The driver, a thirty-something woman with a helmet of curly blond hair and dimples. Not stunning by any means, but she exuded an aura of comfort and acceptance. If she were lesbian, I guessed she was pretty popular in that crowd. She flipped on the left turn signal and eased out into the travel lane.
"I'm Renni" she said.
"Hi. I'm James. Been a busy day?"
I kept a mental catalog of stock conversation questions. it wasn't that I was just trying to fill the silence. I actually did care about the answer because whatever Renni told me might lead to a follow-up question. I liked listening to people tell their stories.
"Your my third since I came on. Just dropped a couple off at a different airline so picking you up was convenient. Where you coming in from?"
"Memphis."
"Staying long?"
"Just till tomorrow."
"Need a bottle of water? Cooler with them in the back seat."
She spoke with a relaxed tone that could put even the jumpiest rider at ease. Good communications made for better tips. In January, Renni started her third year with lyft. Another tactic to increase tips and improve ratings included offering your passenger a snack or something to drink.
"No, but thank you."
Last thing I needed was to arrive at Emma's already anxious and with a full bladder.
Renni smoothly merged us onto Peña Boulevard, heading south. Prior to picking me up, she'd already geolocated Emma's address, locking it into her iPhone. Siri offered helpful directions along the way. We merged onto I-70 westbound, and headed into Denver proper. Renni and I chatted about a variety of topics that somewhat surprisingly included sports. Rockies stink and probably won't finish above this year. Broncos lost their way. Elway was a great quarterback but he's an ownership disaster. Maybe the Avalanche will get better next season.
She stopped in front of a four story brick and stucco building. An American flag hung over the A-frame shaped entrance.
"Thanks for the ride" I said, probably a little too enthusiastically.
"Enjoyed driving you. You want me to wait?"
"No. I'm OK."
"Take care care and have a great night. I start at three tomorrow afternoon if you need a ride back."
"Thanks."
Renni pulled away and I swiped my phone's screen up. I paid the lyft fee and included a twenty-five percent tip. it was a nice ride.
A set of locked doors and intercom sat atop for low-rise concrete steps. Street lights snapped on, buzzing like an irritated cicada.
On the building's northwest corner, above the fourth floor appeared to be a penthouse, complete with sliding glass doors and large deck.
I didn't bother with the building directory. Emma texted me her number.
