TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS
My initial encounter with MK was accidental, unplanned and the most delightful first meeting of a woman I had ever had. Nothing could or ever would top it.
It was a Sunday afternoon in spring, light clouds dotted the blue sky, a breeze shifted loose cherry blossoms across the ground. I was supposed to meet a blind date at a particular coffee shop before going to an M.C Escher exhibit at the art museum.
The date had been arranged by a very dear and long term friend who was convinced that I needed, at the very least, female companionship, if not a "main squeeze" as she irreverently put it. I was rather dubious about the whole thing, but agreed to give it a try.
The photo I was shown of my date was of an attractive blonde woman with a slight, but adorable, overbite, green eyes, and a nice figure. She was described as cultured, bright, fashionable, vivacious, "a free spirit" and "just what I needed". When pressed for more details about the last phrase, my friend just said, "you'll see." My intended date also received an image of me—chosen by my friend. Okay, that was fair.
Although the lady in question and I had each other's phone numbers our contact was, by her choice, via text. I should have paid more attention to that but, honestly, my heart wasn't into the dating game so I didn't really care.
My future date had said that it was a "dressy" art event and gave me the date, time and location to meet her. I texted that, to leave no doubt as to my identity, I would have a newspaper tied with a red ribbon. Her response was "????? Lol" Nearly every text of hers ended with "lol". Communicating via texting may be considered a step or two below smoke signals unless you really know the person.
Despite my friend's assurance that we would 'hit it off famously' I wasn't convinced. Her other texts left me with the impression that our meeting was very secondary, that I was not important. But I chose to assume innocence and committed to the occasion.
As I was to learn it was another life lesson in 'trust your instincts'.
Actually, on that day I had two such opportunities for that particular lesson and, with bitter sweet recollection, remembered that I did follow 'my instincts' on the second test. Otherwise I would not be writing this.
To me, "dressy" meant a suit and tie. I had not dressed up for an occasion, woman or no, for a long time. I had some nice pieces of masculine attire which I had acquired over my lifetime. I decided to actually dress up, instincts be damned.
Highly polished dress shoes, a crisp, white, French-cuff dress shirt, gold and amber cufflinks, a gold fine-link tie chain and silk tie with matching pocket square were features of my ensemble. I chose a simple navy blue double-breasted suit with a yellow silk tie with a small blue rep pattern and pocket square to match.
My small leather notebook, a hand-me-down from my grandfather, and a fountain pen slid into my shirt pocket. Other hand-me-downs from my grandfather that I decided to break out for the occasion were a gold agate moss stick pin, a gold collar stay and his 1939 Gruen 'Curvex' wrist watch. A piece I was especially fond of.
All I needed to complete my 1940's film noir private detective impression was a fedora - which I did own- but didn't take with me. Later, and in retrospect, I kind of wish I had; one person I met that day would definitely have appreciated it.
I was, if nothing else, prompt and punctual. In fact I was early as was my want. The coffee shop was crowded, standing room only. I ordered a small coffee that I didn't really want or need, then found a spot out of the way but within sight of the door to take up station; the red-bedecked newspaper held conspicuously under my left arm.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
No text. No phone call (not that I expected one). Nothing. There was no disappointment, not even annoyance. I mentally shrugged. As I was getting ready to toss my untasted coffee in the garbage and leave when the door opened. My date, with half a dozen chattering men and women in tow, flowed noisily into the space.
Moving past me to the counter, the group seemed oblivious to their surroundings. After a moment or two I saw one woman turn and look back at me then whisper to my 'date'. That worthy separated herself from her friends and approached me, "Hey, there you are!" As though I had been trying to hide from her.
She turned back to respond to a now-forgotten comment from her group and I had a moment to take her in. She was a very nice looking woman with a pleasing figure and a lilting voice. But her manner was so casual and informal I sensed that if I disappeared in a puff of smoke before she turned around to face me she would just shrug her shoulders and give it no thought.
"Wow," she said, finally facing me again. Her friends, now quiet and watching the introduction with what appeared to be bemused interest. "Talk about over dressed! You really took me seriously, didn't you?" I thought I heard a snigger from her crowd.
The attire of both herself and her friends told me either she really had meant the "dressy" adjective in jest or her concept of what to wear was so vastly different than mine as to form an inseparable gulf. Which to be fair, was understandable. I readily confess that I'm more than a little traditional (read old fashioned) in my view of "dressy."
Black and pink Keds-style sneakers sheathed her feet, tight jeans with the required rips and tears fit her lower half nicely, a bulky but unzipped hoodie covered a white T-shirt with an abstract design fit her torso. Her hands were fitted into her back pockets, her blonde tresses were twisted into a haphazard and immensely unattractive bun on the top of her head and her makeup was minimal. Fortunately, she was graced with the kind of features that did not require much adornment.
"My apologies. I chose to err on the side of caution." My smile was a bit forced.
"Ok," she answered hesitantly. "Well, I ran into some friends on the way here and we got to talking. We're gonna skip the museum and go out to Sally's place for the afternoon. I'll text ya the address. You can meet us there." Before she finished with "museum" she had her phone out and was tapping away with both thumbs. She turned to her friends without waiting for a response from me. Somehow I doubted meeting her friends was accidental.
I kept my face very, very neutral. Took a deep, slow breath and, in case she needed one, I had a polite if non-committal reply formed and ready. A response, as it turned out, was not needed.
Someone had ordered for her and with their drinks ready by the time my phone buzzed with her text, the group moved toward the door in a self-absorbed cloud of chatter and laughter. Except for a quick "See ya there!", she, and they, disappeared without another word or glance.
I remained standing. Breathing slowly, deeply, concentrating on not crushing the paper cup of cold coffee. I was acutely aware that I had likely been the center of attention for a sizable number of patrons and desperately wanted to present as dignified a presence as possible -
if
that
was
even possible.
Or to vanish instantly in a puff of smoke. That would have been preferable.
This time I would trust my instincts. I had no plans to join my 'date' and her friends.
I turned a bit to allow a lumbering figure to pass, hands full of a cardboard drink carrier that I just knew was loaded with caramel and peppermint stickiness that was destined to land on me, and found myself facing a well dressed and immensely attractive brunette looking me straight in the eye.
Seated, her table for two was occupied only by herself. There was an interesting mix in her eyes, perhaps a twinkle of humor and with only my instincts to counsel me, believed was not directed at me. I thought I saw reproach for my 'date' and something that said 'I like you'. Or perhaps, 'I like how you handled that awful situation'. Perhaps I only saw what I wanted to see.
She was wearing a very nicely fitting and tasteful gray pinstripe suit and skirt, a red blouse that was unable to conceal an ample bosom and encircling her neck was a pearl choker. Her makeup, although more involved than my intended dates', was tasteful, well done and presented a very, very pleasing picture. A ceramic cup of coffee, held with slender red-tipped fingers and an empty plate with crumbs rested on the small table in front of her.
Her hair was wrapped very attractively on and around her head and off-set bangs were draped at an angle across her forehead. I did not know what term to use for that hair style but, later, I shared with her that my first thought at seeing her was "fetchingly beautiful". I recall the beaming smile with which I was rewarded upon sharing that opinion.
A smile - not the beaming one I would eventually know and love to see - appeared and she lifted her right leg, straightened it - holding it for just a bit —, pushed the second chair out from the table toward me and, again holding her leg out for just a bit longer than was really necessary, she set her stilettoed foot down with smooth grace and with a touch of flourish.
I would in time come to greatly appreciate and look forward to such teasing gestures; they would form such an integral part of our relationship.
It was then that I noticed the eye-catching black patent leather stiletto (4 inches at least) and the sheer black stockinged leg. A very shapely....sheer....stockinged....leg. They had to be FFs or RHTs. No other piece of hosiery had 'that look'.
Oh. My. God. What have I stumbled upon?
"Take a load off.....Fanny. If you want...." I smiled at her musical reference.
