THE KISS

                                 THE KISS

                                            BY ROY L. PICKERING JR.

     Packing is thirsty business, even when gathering up nothing but the bare essentials, so I stand in the light supplied by my refrigerator and take a swig of soda from the bottle.  This is a childhood habit that I did not or would not outgrow no matter how frequently my wife nagged me to get a cup, to set a better example for our children.  She never has understood that when drinking, I am making no attempt to be a role model.  I’m simply quenching my thirst.

     It is a few minutes past midnight and my house is silent and near pitch dark.  I am frequently awake at this hour, usually not by choice, but due to my body’s frustrating rebellion against sleep.  This situation has worsened considerably in the past few months, probably because I’ve had much on my mind, and troubles do not give respite just because eyes have been closed.  Tonight however, I fully intended to be awake at this late hour.  There is a purpose to my current night crawling.

     As I drain the bottle of ginger ale, I am reminded of an  evening in the distant past.  I was in my first year of high school at the time, and the occasion was my school’s freshman dance.  The cafeteria was serving as dance hall, and the majority of my classmates were exhibiting their best moves in rhythm with the blaring music.  As for me, I was stationed by the punch bowl, snacking on potato chips and downing one glass of punch after another.  Throughout my mindless snacking my gaze remained steady. The object of my observation, admiration, dedication and desperation was Erica Murphy.  I was absolutely crazy about her, had been since the first time I laid eyes on her, and had no idea what to do about it. 

     She was dancing with her boyfriend, a guy who I would have disliked on general principle based on his personality, but the fact that he had claimed the girl who had claimed my heart cemented the deal.   A slow song came on and Mark got to pull Erica closer and hold her swaying body in his arms.  This was more than I was willing to take.  I would not allow my solitude to be taunted any longer.  I would not allow my passion to be made a mockery of.  Plus, I had to pee.  

     I headed to the bathroom.  Once my business there was taken care of, I took a long hard look at myself in the mirror.  I wasn't bad looking.  A few pimples, but no major damage.  If only I wasn't so shy.  If only I had met Erica before Mark.  But "if only" was too depressing a concept for me to deal with.  "If only" never got you anywhere.  It never got anything done.  You either accepted what you were and where you were at, or else you went and changed it.  I chose the former and decided to go home.

     As I was leaving, who should come walking my way but Erica.

     "Hi, Denis."

     "Hi, Erica.  What are you doing out here?"

     "Going to the bathroom."

     "Of course.  So, uh, are you enjoying the dance?"

     "Yeah, it's okay."

     I was quickly running out of small talk.  My heart was beating furiously.  I sensed an opportunity, but for what I wasn’t quite sure.  "The music's pretty good."

     "Yeah, it's okay," she responded.  A few more seconds of torturous silence passed.  I couldn't think of anything else menial to say.  "Well, see you later," Erica said as she headed towards the girls room.

     "Wait a minute."  I noticed that I had grabbed hold of her arm, but I had no idea why I was stopping her.  Then suddenly I did.  I took a step forward, closed my eyes, and kissed her. 

     No dictionary contains the right words to define the sensation of that moment.  Never before had I felt so alive.  My imagination had failed to warn me that her lips would be so soft and sweet.

     "Denis, I ..."

     "Yeah, I know," I said, cutting her off.  I didn't want the magic to be tainted by an "I like you, but as a friend" speech.  I was perfectly content with my initiation into manhood.  And though I had not been transformed into an expert on the ways of women, something about that kiss told me she had wanted it as much as I.

     Time has a way of sneaking by at a pace that would make you nauseous if you were conscious of the speed.  Somehow, some way, twelve years have passed between then and now.  Yet it's crystal clear in my mind, no detail forgotten.  I've gained much since that night when I lost a little of my innocence with Erica Murphy. A diploma, a marriage certificate, kids, career, house. Sometimes I wonder if it was a fair trade.

     I guess I'm done packing now.  Strolling down memory lane has made me hungry, as has the open refrigerator door.  Maybe I should make myself a sandwich for the road.  No, I'm just delaying the inevitable.  I've spent too much time thinking this over.  I thought of every possible reason not to do it, and none were good enough.

     I leave the kitchen and quietly enter the bedroom of my two children, Krystal and Tyler.  It's hard to believe sometimes that I'm half responsible for creating anything this precious.  I fear they will hate me.  If they don't on instinct, my wife will make certain they learn.  Not that I'll blame her.  I'm going to have to take the heat on this one.  No way I squeeze out smelling like a rose.

     I grew up on westerns, so am no stranger to the good guy/bad guy motif.  Every story has to have one of each, and nobody has any problem telling them apart, on account of their hats.  The good guy has it all.  The townspeople adore him, for he's come to save their little world.  He has no guilt complex to contend with, no inner demons to fight, because he has strength of conviction.  That is, he's always sure he's right because right is all he knows.  With such dedication to justice, not to mention a perfect profile, of course he always gets the glory and the girl.  Not a bad job.  But you have to wonder how difficult it is to keep that hat so white.  How much does he have to sacrifice? 

     After eight years of playing the role; loving husband, dutiful father, church going - tax paying - hard working community pillar, I decided to switch hats.  I'm giving up my good guy perks for the piece of my soul I pawned away, and a hat much easier to keep clean.

     Looking at my kids is almost enough to do it.  I'm just about willing to slip back into my marital bed and continue with the facade.  This won't be easy for them.  They won't understand.  From their point of view, hell from everybody's viewpoint, what we had seemed fine.  People have spouses who cheat on them, or abuse them, or commit any number of matrimonial atrocities.  Not so in our case.  Our lives were a Norman Rockwell painting with one invisible flaw.  Somewhere along the line I fell out of love with my wife, and she responded in kind.

     How did it happen?  If I could, I would make a concise declaration illuminating beyond the shadow of a doubt the specific reason for the downfall of our marriage.  No can do.  There was no climactic episode, but rather, a steady progression of moments, infinitesimal on their own, each serving to further widen the rift that had formed between us.

     I fell in love with my wife in one fell swoop.  I fell out of it slowly, steadily, by degrees.  I realized it had happened when I couldn't smile for a picture.  You choose to spend your life with someone because that person makes you happy.  I was all out of happy.  And after trying for a few years to figure out where it had gone and how to get it back, I reached the conclusion I had suspected all along.  It wasn't coming back, and I didn't want to live this way anymore.  

     I cautiously enter the other occupied bedroom in my house.  There she goes, my wife of eight years.  On insomniac nights I have spent countless hours watching her sleep.  But never like this.  Never standing in the doorway with a knapsack wrapped around my shoulder, saying goodbye in secret.  It feels cowardly, but what good would a big teary scene do?  Like any sane man, when I die I want to go in my sleep.  I'm a firm believer in silent exits.

     I walk to my wife's side of the bed and memorize her expression in slumber.  If it's going to haunt me, I might as well get it right.  She's still so beautiful.  As beautiful as when I first kissed her.  I had been right.  She did want it as much as I. It took all of a fourteen year old boy's courage to snatch that first kiss, and another two years romantic labor to earn a second. A long time by some people's standards.  But to me it seemed a worthwhile venture, and time was a commodity I possessed in abundance.

     Without hardly being conscious of doing it, I lean over and kiss her softly.  Her eyes flutter, then snap open.  Her gaze locks onto mine for a moment.  Then her eyes wander over me until something makes them come to a stop.  She has spotted my knapsack.  "Erica, I ..."

     "Yes, I know", she says, giving me grace to skip the speech I don't have it in me to utter, and she can do without hearing.  What can we say in one night that we haven't said in eight years? We've run out of words, out of steam, out of time.  It's almost funny that I had worried about a tumultuous farewell.  The air has been leaking out of our balloon for years, so how could we possibly go out with a bang?

     Erica can afford to be silent.  Everyone will automatically take her side.  Nobody roots for a deserter.  It will be apparent who the bad guy is, so she knows she can save her breath.  In my defense I could explain that I did not terminate our marriage by running away, because you can't kill what's already dead. But what would be the point?  Once you've been seen wearing that black hat, it's yours forever.

     Life seemed perfect on that once upon a time night, standing outside the boys bathroom with my body on fire and heart on a string.  My first kiss almost lasted forever, but not quite.  I guess sometimes not even your destiny is the one.

     There is nothing left to do but turn and leave.  It ended a long time ago.  It just took me a while to follow our love out the door.  No one will believe me, but this is the most necessary thing I've ever done. 

     Still, I am torn apart inside.  She was after all, my first love.  This woman provided the two most potent memories of my life. The first time I ever kissed her...and the last.

pic.twitter.com/aFFHARiYB6

— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) December 12, 2018

HAND ME DOWN LIFE - a short story

Hand Me Down Life

By Roy L. Pickering Jr.

            “Why would he do such a thing?”

            Austin expected no response to the question.  Evelyn put a hand on his shoulder.  There was little else his wife could do and absolutely nothing she could say that would bring clarity.  The confusion felt by Austin, like the pain, had been selfishly handed down to him by his brother Allen.  Neither gift could be refused.

            Downstairs, the humble home of his parents was teeming with mourners.  Rather than mingling amongst them at the wake, Austin had brought Evelyn to the bedroom shared by he and Allen in childhood.  The room appeared much as it did way back when.  Their parents were the nostalgic type and had found no better purpose for the space than to keep it as a sort of museum. 

            Numerous sports trophies earned by the brothers in high school gleamed from the shelf their father had built to showcase them.  The dates on Allen’s trophies were all three years earlier than the dates on Austin’s.  For every race that Austin finished first in or championship game his team had come out on the winning end of, he was breaking no new ground, but merely duplicating the accomplishments of his big brother.

            Turning to face his wife, Austin found himself hurtling through a time warp.  Evelyn was standing in nearly the exact same place as when he laid eyes on her for the first time.  It had been love at initial sighting, in spite of the words of introduction spoken by his brother.

            “Austin, this is my girlfriend Eve.  Eve, meet my little brother.”

            “Hi,” she said, capturing his heart and imagination with a single syllable.  But Austin put his desire on hold, for he was given little choice.  This was his brother’s girl, and as it would turn out, she remained so for nearly two years.  After their break-up, nine months passed until Austin crossed paths with her again.  Now that she was finally available, he vowed not to let her get away.  Charming her was the easy part.  They already knew their personalities to be a good match.  Mustering the courage to ask Allen if he had a problem with his little brother dating his ex-girlfriend was considerably more difficult.  But once the words were out, Allen simply tousled his air and congratulated him for landing such a great girl.

            Austin picked up a photograph taken back when he was six years old, Allen half a foot taller at the age of nine.  The height disparity would be bridged in the following years, though Allen did manage to maintain a half inch advantage.  In the picture, Allen was staring straight ahead at the camera with a look of extreme confidence, as if knowing that he would come out looking great, both in the photo and in life.  Austin was captured in profile, gazing admiringly at his big brother, his mentor, his hero.

            Allen wore a red cap, a plaid shirt, and a pair of dungarees.  The outfit was quite familiar to Austin, for these items were among several pieces of clothing that came into his own possession later on.  This was a pattern that would repeat itself throughout their lives.  Allen would acquire something, eventually outgrow it, and then it would be Austin’s turn to walk the same mile in inherited shoes.

            Evelyn was looking at a photograph that was hanging on the wall.  It had been taken when the brothers were grown men.  Even as adults, Austin a family man and Allen a carefree bachelor, the two of them still saw each other nearly every day.  In the picture that had grabbed Evelyn’s attention, the brothers posed side by side in the uniforms of their chosen trade, two handsome young men who fought fires and saved lives. 

Noticing his wife’s gaze, Austin could not help but wonder if she was comparing the two great loves of her life; the very first one who ushered her into womanhood and called her Eve; the latter who gave her his name, fathered her children, and chose to call her Evelyn. 

“It’s amazing how strongly Lucas resembles him,” she said, speaking of their second born son, reminding Austin of how awful a chore it had been to tell his kids that their uncle had died.  There was a brief moment of hauntingly still silence, then Lance erupted with a wail of anguish, echoed a second later by his little brother.  Austin instantly knew that Lucas was crying more in reaction to Lance’s pain than to the sad news about Uncle Allen.  Lucas was too young to fully comprehend the nature of death yet.  He was the lucky one.

“Mandy seems very nice.  What did she tell you?”

Mandy was Allen’s girlfriend.  Neither of them had met her prior to the day of the funeral.  It was Mandy who found Allen’s body hideously splayed on the floor of her walk-in closet, the white carpeting already turned mostly crimson.

“Nothing that explains anything,” Austin answered.  “She said he didn’t seem any different lately.  He didn’t appear to be unhappy.  He was a little withdrawn, a little quiet, but he’d been that way for as long as she’d known him.  I don’t think her shock has fully worn off yet.”

“Has yours?”

“I’ve spoken barely a dozen words to Allen in the last six months.  Things changed between us after the fire at Briarwood Towers.  I don’t think he ever got over it.  Hell, how are you supposed to get over something like that?”

Allen had gotten within eight feet of the three children trapped in the blaze, within a few seconds of rescuing them from the merciless blaze, when a beam suddenly gave way and a large portion of the ceiling came crashing down upon them before his disbelieving eyes.  Shortly afterwards, he announced his resignation from the fire department.  Austin’s last extensive conversation with him had taken place when he dropped by to talk his brother out of the hasty decision.

“Why don’t you just take a long vacation, take some time to get your head together.  You’re great at your job, Allen.  The rest of us all look up to you.  You’re a real live hero, man, and there’s far too few of those.  You did everything you could to save those kids.  There just wasn’t enough time to get to them.  You more than anyone knows the nature of the work we do.  Sometimes the fire gets too big of a head start.  Sometimes the fire wins.”

“Don’t lecture me with my own words, little brother.  I know what I’m doing.  I know why I need to do it.  I’m no hero.  I’ve done nothing to warrant being anybody’s role model.”  Allen then lifted the bottle of vodka he was holding up to his mouth, taking a long swig.  

“I thought you didn’t drink anymore.  Didn’t you learn your lesson after drinking yourself out of college?”

“Never you mind what I learned,” Allen spewed.  “That’s your damn problem.  Always minding what I do, imitating what I’ve experienced instead of looking for your own way to live.”

“I’d almost forgotten how stupid alcohol makes you.  First comes the self-pity, then the lashing out at people who love you and have your best interests at heart.”

“Let’s not change the subject.  We were talking about you.  About how you’ve spent your whole life snacking off of my leftovers.  You had good grades in school.  You could have gone to college, become whatever it is you wanted to be.  But instead you followed me into the fire department, just as you’ve always followed behind me.  You’ve never made your own choices.  You’ve never even bothered to search for your own way.  You just hitched onto the tail end of mine.”

“If that’s how you feel, that’s how you feel,” Austin said, hearing the quaver of hurt in his voice, unable to control it.  “How come you never told me you felt this way about me before?  You might have spoken your mind about it a lot sooner.” 

“Why?  To make you stop following me like a puppy dog?  Sure, I could have swatted you on the nose and sent you scurrying away.  But I didn’t want to embarrass you and make you feel like shit.  I kept waiting for you to outgrow it, to finally step out of my shadow and become your own person.  I figured that had to happen eventually.  But it didn’t.  You’ve been content being the poor man’s version of me.”

“Fuck you, Allen.  I came here to give you my support.  I came because you’re my brother.  I love you, and I don’t want you to screw up your life.  The bottle has always made you an asshole.  Don’t put yourself through that hell again.  Don’t put your family through it again.  What happened in that building was a terrible thing.  That fire claimed three innocent lives.  Don’t let it destroy yours as well.  Putting that bottle to your mouth is no different that putting a gun barrel to you head.  It’s only a little slower.”

“Before you start acting holier than thou, make sure you have your facts straight,” Allen said.  “I didn’t start drinking again because of those kids dying.  If you must know, I started back drinking more than a month ago.”

“What?”

“I was drinking the night before the fire.  And I drank earlier that morning too.  I wasn’t completely sober when I was trying to get to those kids.  I was doing my job as well as I could do it under the circumstances, and maybe they would have died on me no matter what.  But there’s no way for me to know for sure.  What I do know is that I won’t ever be able to put on my uniform again without the question coming to mind.  So I won’t be putting it on any more.  I want that chapter of my life behind me for good.  You can have my share of the superhero business.”

“I think you’re being a fool,” Austin said, for he was too stunned to say much of anything else.

“You going to judge me, little brother?  Well if you are, at least have the courtesy to judge yourself first.  Figure out why you’ve spent your life copycatting me.  Figure out just what you’re so insecure about.  Why is it that you can’t take a road unless it already has my footprints on it?  Hell, you even married one of my castoffs.”

The punch that Austin threw with perfect form landed flush on his brother’s jaw, knocking him to the floor.  Allen looked up in a daze as the liquor bottle by his side emptied its contents and Austin walked out of the apartment.

Austin never revealed in full to Evelyn the specifics of the argument.  It was the closest thing to a secret that he had kept from her since the days of not revealing his desire while she was dating his brother.  One week later Allen apologized for his behavior, laying the blame on drunkenness and bad timing.  True to his word, he did not return to work.  From that point on he made his presence increasingly scarce, as if hoping that absence would make the heart grow amnesia.  Austin was convinced that he continued to drink, but had no idea what if anything could be done about it.

Six months passed quietly by.  Then one day Austin received a phone call from his father.  His obviously distraught mother could be heard in the background.  A woman named Mandy had just contacted them.  She said that Allen had been living with her.  She said that earlier that day she had gone out for half an hour to do some shopping.  In the time that she was gone, Allen stepped into a closet with a loaded pistol and shot himself in the head.

A few days later, Austin found himself staring at a photograph in his old bedroom.  It depicted two boys whose lives were ahead of them, siblings often likened to peas in a pod, the younger idolizing the elder.  For as far back as he could remember, Austin had wanted to be just like his big brother.  He emulated Allen’s actions, mimicked his choices.  Allen served as a dependable roadmap, showing a shy child how to be a brave boy, an easily intimidated youth how to become a courageous man.  Yet that map had led to this strange and awful place, so far away from the aura of optimism exuded from Allen’s eyes in the childhood snapshot.

Physically, there was no mistaking Austin and Allen for anything but brothers.  They shared the penetrating eyes of their father, the full lips of their mother, and possessed identical sets of dimples.  But when Austin compared the photo of he and Allen as boys to the one of them as men, he saw that their resemblance to one another was stronger in youth.  This he attributed to a small change in Allen’s features that had not yet occurred at the time of the earlier picture.  The small scar just off to the side of his left eye had been earned when he was fifteen years old.  On that long past but most memorable night, Austin made the regrettable mistake of succumbing to curiosity and examining their father’s prized collection of baseball memorabilia.  He had been told time and time again that the items were for display purposes only, but examining the mythical objects of sports lore up close seemed harmless enough, a victimless act of rebellion. 

Less than fifteen minutes after their father arrived home that evening, he summoned his sons to the study.  In his hand was the top half of a uniform autographed by the great Lou Brock.  The jelly stain unknowingly left behind on the collar stood out blatantly to the boys as they stepped timidly forward.

“Which one of you did this?”

“I-I-I…” 

Austin took a moment to catch his breath.  He had been a witness to his father’s hairpin trigger temper often enough to have a fair idea what was in store for him.  The stutter that he was still years away from overcoming was always at its worst in the unforgiving presence of his father.

“It was me, Dad.”

For a second Austin thought that he had managed to speak without opening his mouth or willing the words to be uttered.  But in the next second he grasped that it was actually Allen who had confessed, even though he was guiltless.      

“Boy, how many times have I told you that these are not toys?”

“Many times.”

The backhanded slap that followed rivaled the swiftness of a cobra’s strike.  It knocked Allen to the floor, and because of the ring on their father’s finger, it inadvertently drew blood.

“Then you should know better, shouldn’t you?”

“Yes sir,” Allen answered.

His lesson taught, their father walked out of the room, dropping a handkerchief on the floor as parting gift.  Austin retrieved it and handed it to his brother, who dabbed at the fresh wound that would mark him for life.

“Thanks,” Austin said.

“Don’t sweat it.  That’s what big brothers are for.”

As grateful as he was for Allen’s playing the part of sacrificial lamb, Austin did not fully understand why his brother had volunteered for undeserved punishment.  Now these many years later, he could not fathom the pain his brother must have been in over the past several months, perhaps much longer.  Nor could he make sense of Allen’s decision to take his own life rather than waiting for better days to come.  Then again, his brother had never been particularly patient.

Tears began to fall onto the picture frame in Austin’s hand.  His father and brother always said that tears were a sign of weakness.  But what did either of them know?  One had no idea how to be a father.  The other quit on things when they got too tough.  These had been Austin’s shining examples of manhood. 

Austin let his tears flow, because crying at least gave him temporary respite from trying to figure out what had gone so tragically wrong.  He had grown uncertain of all things, except for the leaden realization that there would be no more footsteps for him to follow throughout life.  Only open road.

Just because...

A beautiful, and heartbreaking, remembrance of Prince: His original studio recording of Nothing Compares 2 U, set to footage of Prince & the Revolution rehearsing in the summer of 1984 when the song was recorded. https://t.co/5n6K0VFRuA 🙏🏾💜 @therevolution

— Anil Dash Dot Com (@anildash) April 19, 2018

Book Review

Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I was vaguely aware that a movie adaptation has been made of this novel when picking it up to read. I have yet to see the movie, but in general when I see that a book has been made into a movie, I figure the book must be pretty good. This way of thinking can prove to be false of course. At most it's probably a solid indicator that the book sold well. We know that plenty of lousy movies have been adapted from far superior books, and perhaps less frequently but it does happen, a pretty good movie sometimes can be the result of adaptation from a so-so book. In the case of Water for Elephants since I haven't seen the movie, I can't speak as to which version I enjoyed best. I can only speak to the novel which I thought was mediocre. It's the story of a man in his nineties living in a nursing home who thinks back on his days spent working as a veterinarian in a traveling circus. The setting jumps back and forth from Jacob being a young man on a train with a bunch of circus folk to being an old man dealing with the erosion of his body and mind. Most of the book is dedicated to his circus days and how he ends up with the woman who would become his wife and mother of his children. These sections are where most of the action takes place. In the present it doesn't get more dramatic than Jacob being cranky about nursing home life, him becoming disoriented sometimes, and family members forgetting to visit him on the one day when a circus happens to be nearby. Yet I found the writing to be more engaging in quiet scenes set in the present where nothing much took place than the portions dealing with circus life. Plenty of elements are in place for intriguing storytelling. We have a circus owner with a complex over not being the Ringling Brothers Circus who is willing to cut losses of human lives if that's what it takes to keep the show going on. There is the paranoid schizophrenic boss who switches from charming to psychotic on a dime. His beautiful headline act wife whom Jacob can not stop thinking about. Also aboard the train are performers, some more freakish than others, and animals, some more dangerous than others, that are in Jacob's care. The scenes taking place during Jacob's youth felt rushed to me. It was as if the author wanted to include as many eventful happenings during this period as could be crammed in, but she dwells on none of them for long because it's already time to move on to the next one. Everybody seemed to be a character sketch of a personality type rather than a fully fleshed out human being. The lone exception is Jacob, but only because the book focuses on him in his senior years along with his adventurous youthful days, giving us a little more time to learn what makes him tick. Water for Elephants is an easy read that covers some interesting territory, but it fell well short of being the greatest show on earth. I wouldn't be surprised if I enjoy the movie more than the book if I ever get around to watching it. I've rounded up from 2-1/2 to 3 stars because I like the title of this book and that's as good a reason as any.

View all my reviews

STRANGERS IN THE MORNING - A #ShortStory

                   STRANGERS IN THE MORNING

                    BY ROY L. PICKERING JR.

     My perception of beauty has been forever altered, for she is by all standards of critique known to mankind the most stunning woman to walk this earth.

     Her legs rise gracefully from dainty feet and continue into the stratosphere.  Her body's sultry, dangerous curves take the mind's eye on a journey it will not soon forget.  An auburn mane frames her magnificent visage, then sprawls across bare velvet shoulders.  Her eyes are a color I have never seen, though possibly once dreamt of as a child.  She looks so good it hurts to gaze upon her, but it is infinitely more painful to look away.

     There is a simultaneous burning in my heart, gut, and crotch. I know as I have known nothing before that she is the one.       

     Who am I kidding?  What chance in hell do I have with someone like her? This is the kind of woman you see in magazines attached to the arm of a billionaire or rock star.  Certainly a regular guy like me has no chance.

     The goddess re-crossed her legs, giving me a glimpse of inner thigh.  The road which leads to paradise. 

     I would slay a dragon for her.  I would swim the Pacific, climb Mt. Everest, hike across the Sahara.  All of this I would do simply to hear her say my name.  Check that, to scream it in a fit of passion and ecstacy.  I must have her, or die trying.

     How am I supposed to go about achieving this task?  By saying something to her, I suppose.  But what?

     It is a deceptively difficult question to answer.  A woman like the one across from me has surely heard every line in the book.  If it sounds like a manufactured dime-a-dozen come on, she won't even acknowledge my presence.  I will have to come up with something original and witty.  And it must sound sincere.  Delivery is key.  I must be charming in an effortless way.  This of course will take much preparation.  Unfortunately, time is not on my side.

     She looked at me.  She glanced up and for a millisecond our eyes met.  I think my heart has stopped beating.  Lord I know I don't do this very often, but I'm doing it now.  Give me this and I'll be the best Christian you ever saw.  And if you won't help me out - how about you, Satan?  My soul is yours, just as long as I get to keep my heart for her.  I'll toss in my baseball autographed by Thurman Munson too.  Even my dog, if that's what it will take.  Just please let me have this.

     She has to have a boyfriend who she's madly in love with.  Or crueler yet, she just broke up with someone and can't bear the thought of being with another man.  She decided last week to give die hard lesbianism a shot.  Or perhaps she's just left her doctor's office after finding out that she has a scorching case of something tremendously contagious and irritating.  There will be some impenetrable barrier prohibiting me from being with her.  There always is.

     I consider myself intelligent, adequately attractive, possessing a fairly keen sense of humor.  Maybe I won't be appearing on a list of New York's most eligible bachelors any time soon, but I compare favorably to a good percentage of the bozos I see around me.  Of course this is the subway, so that isn't saying much.

     My bad luck with women is legendary.  It's always the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong something.  No matter how promising romantic ventures initially appear, the cookie inevitably manages to crumble.  

     This would more than make up for past misfortunes.  She's my every fantasy with a couple extra attractions I wasn't creative enough to dream up.  

     Did that happen?  Maybe it was just wishful thinking.  Perhaps her beauty has intoxicated me to the point where I can't tell what's real anymore.  But I could have sworn she looked at me again.  It was only for a flash, and it's possible she simply felt like looking ahead and I happened to fall in her line of view.  I'll wait and see if it happens once more.  If it does, I'll drop to my knees and beg for her hand in marriage.

     She has taken a magazine from her purse and is leafing through it.  Something she reads amuses her.  I thought nothing in the world could possibly improve upon her beauty.  Then she smiled and I know that I will do anything to be the cause of the next one.

     Our train pulls into Grand Central Station.  I am so transfixed by her gracefulness as she rises and walks that I don't realize she is exiting from the train and my life until it is almost too late.  I spring through the closing doors just in time.

     For five terrifying seconds I cannot find her.  She has gotten lost in the crowd, could have gone in any direction.  Then I see her.  I resume breathing.

     "Excuse me, sir.  Pardon me, ma'am."

     I weave in and out of the masses, doing everything possible to keep her in my sights.  I feel like a C.I.A. agent on the trail of a spy.  The fact briefly dawns on me that I have gotten off at the wrong stop.  I am supposed to be on my way to work.  But what is another dreary day of labor compared to meeting the woman I plan to spend the rest of my days with?

     She gets onto a train headed for Queens and I faithfully shadow her.  It is too crowded for either of us to get a seat, so we stand, our bodies only a foot apart.  The amalgamation of her perfume and shampoo invade my nostrils.  The train unexpectedly jerks, our shoulders briefly touch, a wave of liquid heat blazes down my arm.  She clears her throat.  A chorus of angels could not make a more glorious sound.

     For twenty minutes we are side by side.  In that time I steal countless glances.  I am certain that she sneaks a few peeps in my direction as well, but whenever I try to meet her gaze she is looking maddeningly elsewhere.

     Then it happens.  Our eyes lock in an embrace more intensely erotic than any sexual experience I have ever known.  This is followed by something wonderful, something miraculous.  She smiles, and this time the smile is for me.

     My bedazzlement causes her to once again almost slip my net.  I squeeze through the subway doors and continue pursuit.  Heading down the stairs leading to the sidewalk, I begin wracking my brain for the perfect opening.  Perfection is a lot to ask of yourself before the morning's first cup of coffee.     

     I quicken my pace to get within striking distance.  My heart has accelerated likewise.  I am now only a few steps behind.  To get her attention, I need do no more than reach out and tap her shoulder.  As for what should follow, I've decided to play it by ear.  This isn't a movie where in one short scene the dashing hero captures the heart of the beautiful leading lady.  This is real life.  I'm just plain old Lloyd Briscol.  As I see it, my only chance lies in speaking from the gut.  I will proclaim that as soon as I first laid eyes upon her, I knew it was love.  It doesn't matter that this is the only thing about her that I know.  She is who I want to grow old with, the woman destined to bare my children.  What beyond that could possibly matter?

     Up until today, I have had led a mundane existence.  I've accomplished not a single thing that truly mattered.  In college, a little more studying per week could have changed my C's into A's, and those A's could have put me into medical school.  But I could never find the drive to put in that extra time.  A few more hours of overtime and a bit of kissing up would be all it takes to accelerate the forward process of my career.  Once again, I come up short on motivation.  I do not attribute this lack of aggressiveness to laziness.  It is just my opinion that the only things worth fully pursuing are those which you want with every fiber of your being.  Until I fortuitously looked up from my newspaper on the subway this morning, life had supplied me with a scant supply of such items.    

     With her by my side, I know I can conquer the world.  I simply need the opportunity to somehow make her feel for me as I do for her.

     She turns and heads towards the entrance of an office building.  I have to do something.  I must speak now or forever hold my tongue.  My mouth opens but nothing comes out.

     Perhaps she is reading my thoughts or absorbing my vibe.  Is it possible that all along she has sensed my longing?  Could it be that either God or Satan is answering my prayers?  Whatever the explanation, she stops.  She looks directly at me.  It's as if a spotlight is beaming upon us.  We are the only two people in existence.  I inhale deeply in preparation.  The moment has arrived.

     "Have a nice day."

     For the very last time she smiles at me.  Then she opens the door and is gone.

     Oh sure, I could have said something wonderfully clever.  I could have won her over in a handful of seconds, but what would be the point?  I am not so much of a dreamer that I am incapable of recognizing undesirable truth.  Like it or not but given no choice either way, the world is round.  The sky is blue.  And she could never live up to what I had imagined her to be.  So why let reality ruin such a beautiful fantasy?