The first time I laid eyes on her, at the mall, I was sure I had seen her before, met her even, but couldn't place when or where. That happens to me a lot, I'll see the Costco girl at a restaurant, or the gas station guy downtown at the Square, and find myself trying to figure out where I know them. I'm almost always able to put person to face—but not this time.
I saw her again a couple hours later; I was wandering around the Saturday market when she walked right by. About two inches shorter than me, she wore a loose crimson t-shirt and khaki shorts, her soft brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was youngish, early 20s maybe, and had a small fanny pack around her waist. It struck me that she was very attractive, could have just about any guy she wanted—and then, she looked at me. When her eyes caught mine, I felt it again: I
know
her, but
how
?
*
I was at home, revising a story on my computer, when the doorbell rang. Wearing only shorts and briefs, I pulled on an Old Navy t-shirt and headed to the door. I wasn't completely shocked when I saw her standing on the front porch. Surprised, yes; hesitant to open the door, definitely; maybe a little curious? I'd have to say yes to that, too. After seeing her twice earlier in the day, after locking eyes and feeling the tickle of recognition that I couldn't quite place, I had half-expected her to show up at my door—and here she was. Like I said, I wasn't completely shocked.
Since my wife and son were visiting the in-laws in Omaha and I didn't want the neighbors to see a strange young woman at my doorstep at 9pm on a Saturday night, there was only one thing to do. I opened the door.
"Yes? Can I help you?" I stared into her eyes, captivated, unsure what to say next.
Silence. She said nothing, just stood there. The moment lingered, dragged on thirty seconds, a minute. She stood perfectly still, continued staring right back at me with one hand in her pocket and the other on her hip. Her shoulders were slouched at an angle, questioning. She seemed to be deliberating a response; finally, she spoke.
"I'm not sure." Melodic, her soft, clear voice rang in my ears. I couldn't remember having ever spoken to her, yet I knew this voice, the nuance. "I'm looking for someone."
"I'm sorry?" I answered, confused.
"I was drawn here, to this town, the mall, the market, and, finally, this house—
your
house. I'm looking for a man about your age, your height, your build." The familiar cadence of her voice grew stronger, more confident as she spoke, gaining momentum. "I think it's you." Pause. "I
know
it's you."
"I don't think—"
"No, you don't," she interrupted. Suddenly she was through the door, her brilliant green eyes arresting me in my tracks.
*
She pulled the door shut behind her with a thud, forced me back until my legs banged up against the couch. I slumped heavily down into the cushions, arms hanging loosely at my sides.
She stood directly before me, staring me down.
I glanced down, took in her long lean legs, shifted my gaze up over the slim waist, the curved breasts standing out proudly with just the faintest hint of nipple showing. It was hard to be sure; the dark crimson t-shirt hung loosely, not revealing any of the texture beneath. Looking up, the familiarity of her face was inescapable—subtle yet defined jaw, expressive eyebrows, and the creamy white skin. She was mysterious, hauntingly beautiful. My chest tightened; it was becoming difficult to breathe.
"You know me, these eyes, these legs, these breasts." As she named each body part she emphasized them: winking, flexing, cupping.
"This is impos—"
"Impossible?" she roared, furious. "You're talking to me about impossible?" I barely saw the arm swing, had no time to duck—
"S-L-A-P!"
My face stung, four red marks plainly visible on the left cheek.
