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sorry, wrong time for this.
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erosman
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“Uh-h-h-h, Hello,” I stammered, as I tried to relax my surprise and sound collected. I stepped through the door and extended my hand to meet hers. I was immediately surprised by the firmness of her grip. “Thank-you kindly, and yes, I do think we’re in the same class. I remember you from the first class…uh…when you made your fashionable entrance?” I laughed with these words, hoping to lighten the moment, but the shock in her eyes told me I might have blown this first impression. I shook her hand a little extra wanting to massage a bit more laughter into the tension. I was regularly blurting out some observation, and then scrambling to avoid an awkward situation - here I was again, showing my Kansas wheat farmer roots. As quickly as I felt her recoil from my statement, though, her tight-lipped smile gave way to an inviting grin with whitened teeth, that told me her heart was true. My Grandpa, had always said, “That a smile of teeth showed an open heart.” It was too early to tell, but I felt a connection almost immediately, and I had learned to go with that first feeling.
Reading people had served me well for many years. I had honed it as a boy sitting with my Grandpa at the Tuesday livestock sale in Colby and at the occasional farm auctions too. He had taught me to study people and read their faces. He had taught me to know when Mr. Wheeler was selling calves, whether he was trying to slip some questionable stock through the ring, just by whether he would look at the bidders as they raised their hands to signal their continued interest. Or, how Clarence Jones, the used implement dealer, was telling the truth about a particular tractor by the way he set his cap on his head. If he was lying he always wore his cap low to kind of shadow his eyes. And then there was the way that Millie Wilson’s smile showed you that the special at Dill’s Café was first rate or whether you should just order a hamburger with fries. That was it! Millie’s smile! This lady was wearing Millie’s smile. I felt right away that I could trust her heart.
As I released her grip, our hands paused with just our fingertips touching. She was a hand span shorter than I, but her petite stature made her seem small next to my bulldogger frame. The look in her eyes was rather expectant, like she wanted me to say something else. My mind raced back to her inviting introduction: “Hi, I’m Annie Doyle…” Oh, yes! My name. Come on, Mark, tell her your name!
“Mark Osborne. Pleased to meet you ma’am.” Damn, here I was sounding like a hick again. No matter how far I traveled, I never seemed to get too far from my farmer tendencies. Even the past 8 years of bush living in central Africa, hadn’t washed the farm boy from my voice. It had, however, leached the sandy brown from my curly hair, and given me that salt and pepper look that made my 36 years look a bit more. Peace Corp living had fit well with my simple upbringing, but the broken pieces of my heart that I had hoped to reassemble in the arid savannah country of CAR (Central African Republic) were still scattered around in my emotions. And to add to the never-ending confusion, now I was attempting to finish my degree in the most unlikely environment of Philadelphia. Why on earth I needed to take a creative writing class on Tuesday and Thursday evenings was still a bit of a mystery to me. Trying to keep up with the regular day classes and work part-time as a waiter barely left time for this writing class. I was hoping to find some sanity through creative writing, and maybe, just maybe, she was standing in front of me.
Reading people had served me well for many years. I had honed it as a boy sitting with my Grandpa at the Tuesday livestock sale in Colby and at the occasional farm auctions too. He had taught me to study people and read their faces. He had taught me to know when Mr. Wheeler was selling calves, whether he was trying to slip some questionable stock through the ring, just by whether he would look at the bidders as they raised their hands to signal their continued interest. Or, how Clarence Jones, the used implement dealer, was telling the truth about a particular tractor by the way he set his cap on his head. If he was lying he always wore his cap low to kind of shadow his eyes. And then there was the way that Millie Wilson’s smile showed you that the special at Dill’s Café was first rate or whether you should just order a hamburger with fries. That was it! Millie’s smile! This lady was wearing Millie’s smile. I felt right away that I could trust her heart.
As I released her grip, our hands paused with just our fingertips touching. She was a hand span shorter than I, but her petite stature made her seem small next to my bulldogger frame. The look in her eyes was rather expectant, like she wanted me to say something else. My mind raced back to her inviting introduction: “Hi, I’m Annie Doyle…” Oh, yes! My name. Come on, Mark, tell her your name!
“Mark Osborne. Pleased to meet you ma’am.” Damn, here I was sounding like a hick again. No matter how far I traveled, I never seemed to get too far from my farmer tendencies. Even the past 8 years of bush living in central Africa, hadn’t washed the farm boy from my voice. It had, however, leached the sandy brown from my curly hair, and given me that salt and pepper look that made my 36 years look a bit more. Peace Corp living had fit well with my simple upbringing, but the broken pieces of my heart that I had hoped to reassemble in the arid savannah country of CAR (Central African Republic) were still scattered around in my emotions. And to add to the never-ending confusion, now I was attempting to finish my degree in the most unlikely environment of Philadelphia. Why on earth I needed to take a creative writing class on Tuesday and Thursday evenings was still a bit of a mystery to me. Trying to keep up with the regular day classes and work part-time as a waiter barely left time for this writing class. I was hoping to find some sanity through creative writing, and maybe, just maybe, she was standing in front of me.
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erosman
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After handing some additional registration papers to the teacher, I proceeded to take a seat toward the window side of the room. It was then that I heard a woman’s voice blurt out, “Goldie’s Grille!” I turned to see the recently acquainted Annie Doyle send her purse and its contents tumbling to the floor. What a picture of innocent sexiness! Her tight blouse showed her aroused nipples, and as she bent to retrieve her belongings, the tightened denim fabric provided an unforgettable view. I stifled a laugh, as her announcement of my employer rolled around in my thoughts. Rosy embarrassment was flushing her face, and it was at that moment, that I recognized this beautiful, clumsy lady.
It had been a couple months before - in fact it was the weekend after Halloween. It was a busier than usual Friday night at Goldie’s. It was getting late, and I was on my way to a table with a tray of appetizers, when this ditzy blonde jumped out from a booth, right into my path. Reacting quickly to avoid the certain collision, I spun away from her line of travel and holding the tray with one hand, tried to absorb the impact with the other. However, this excited lady, realizing her imminent fate, stopped rather sharply and wheeled herself in the same direction that I had spun. Quick as a whistle, the over-handed tray of appetizers was tilting toward this darting pole cat, and before I could stop its flight, there was guacamole, salsa, and chips adorning the embarrassed patron. As the food found its resting place, she fell to her knees with her head resting on my thigh. There was a sudden hush from the surrounding tables, and in a half-breath everyone anticipated her reaction. I heard her mumble, “shit!” as I gingerly bent over and asked if she were OK. All I could see was a shaking mass of blonde hair, sprinkled with chips. As she tilted her head back, her partially unbuttoned blouse gave me a momentary glimpse of guacamole smeared against her heaving, laced breasts. In the next instant, without so much as a word, she sprang to her feet, and headed for the rest rooms - laughing hysterically. Somehow she avoided me and my apology the rest of the time her party was at Goldie’s that night. I remember thinking after work, “Damn, what an appetizer!”
Now, in a most unlikely scenario, here I was, standing once again over this delightful magnet of surprises. Her overreaction was hilarious. She was so embarrassed at her dilemma, and yet the blush of her face made me think to myself again, “Damn, what an appetizer!”
It had been a couple months before - in fact it was the weekend after Halloween. It was a busier than usual Friday night at Goldie’s. It was getting late, and I was on my way to a table with a tray of appetizers, when this ditzy blonde jumped out from a booth, right into my path. Reacting quickly to avoid the certain collision, I spun away from her line of travel and holding the tray with one hand, tried to absorb the impact with the other. However, this excited lady, realizing her imminent fate, stopped rather sharply and wheeled herself in the same direction that I had spun. Quick as a whistle, the over-handed tray of appetizers was tilting toward this darting pole cat, and before I could stop its flight, there was guacamole, salsa, and chips adorning the embarrassed patron. As the food found its resting place, she fell to her knees with her head resting on my thigh. There was a sudden hush from the surrounding tables, and in a half-breath everyone anticipated her reaction. I heard her mumble, “shit!” as I gingerly bent over and asked if she were OK. All I could see was a shaking mass of blonde hair, sprinkled with chips. As she tilted her head back, her partially unbuttoned blouse gave me a momentary glimpse of guacamole smeared against her heaving, laced breasts. In the next instant, without so much as a word, she sprang to her feet, and headed for the rest rooms - laughing hysterically. Somehow she avoided me and my apology the rest of the time her party was at Goldie’s that night. I remember thinking after work, “Damn, what an appetizer!”
Now, in a most unlikely scenario, here I was, standing once again over this delightful magnet of surprises. Her overreaction was hilarious. She was so embarrassed at her dilemma, and yet the blush of her face made me think to myself again, “Damn, what an appetizer!”
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sorry
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erosman
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As class begins, Ms. Stark’s words are drifting into my subconscious. They feel like the lazy moonlight washing the phosphorescent mud walls of my recent African home – the lunar glow thick as spring fog. I am struggling to listen to her lecture, while my dreamy attentions are being drawn to the silhouette of her clinging black skirt. Ms. Stark looks to be 30 years old, and her muscled backside invites your eyes to linger. Her slow steps show the profiled contractions of her veiled buttocks. Damn! It’s difficult to concentrate on her lecture.
I wrench my thoughts back to her lecture, when she begins detailing the evening’s class work: Using sensual modifiers, describe the taste of a piece of fruit, without using the word ‘taste’. Fortunately, she decides to hide that inviting black skirt under the desk at the front, and I can get on with sensual modifiers. Let’s see, where should I start? My memory starts to wander through my favorite fruits and their flavors. My mind’s eye travels back to the dark continent where I can see the grass baskets holding the fresh fruits that the local ‘fruit’ girls would bring to my back door. There are the regular mango, papaya and banana, but the fruit that I miss the most, is the tiny marakuja. It’s gourd-like shell in it’s bright yellows and oranges, yields a tangy, citrus flavored pulp that has the added contrast of edible seeds. I can still see Alise, the marakuja girl standing at my back door, her firm breasts bulging from her undersized blouse - middle buttons missing in strategic places, that gave you the hint that at any moment you might get a glimpse of her darkened buds. She always wore that look in her eyes that she knew what you wanted to see, and enjoyed just the thought of it. We would haggle the price of her marakujas, and then I would always provide her with a ‘tip’. Before she would hoist her basket back to its perch atop her head, she would untie her wrap around, full-length skirt, and give me quick view of those muscular legs, and do it so naturally, as if to say, “We have finished our business.” Oh-h-h! If she had only known the business that I had in mind for those powerful thighs and coffee-hued breasts.
I settle myself in to write about my African fruit choices. Words are ready to splash onto the paper, when I begin to notice something rolling under my foot. I reach down, only to discover some kind of lip roll. I smell its strawberry scent and decide it must have eluded the lady of surprises, when she spilled her purse’s contents across the floor. The 17 students are mostly sitting at the other end of the room, but between they and I sits Ms., or perhaps, Mrs. Annie Doyle. I wonder which it might be. A portion of the class are moving around the room, looking I suppose for just the right inspirational seat, so I scoop up my belongings and approach my wacky writing colleague, hoping to return the errant treasure to its owner.
I walk to the back of the room, thinking that I will have the element of surprise, if I approach her from the rear. As I near, her feminine shape gives my heart a start. God, all of these sensual modifiers have got me thinking it’s been too long since I enjoyed the pleasures of a lady. I reach out with one hand to tap her shoulder, and quietly say, “Annie, I think this might belong to you.” I hold the lip roll in my open palm for her to see, and her startled look quickly turns into a hungry smile.
I wrench my thoughts back to her lecture, when she begins detailing the evening’s class work: Using sensual modifiers, describe the taste of a piece of fruit, without using the word ‘taste’. Fortunately, she decides to hide that inviting black skirt under the desk at the front, and I can get on with sensual modifiers. Let’s see, where should I start? My memory starts to wander through my favorite fruits and their flavors. My mind’s eye travels back to the dark continent where I can see the grass baskets holding the fresh fruits that the local ‘fruit’ girls would bring to my back door. There are the regular mango, papaya and banana, but the fruit that I miss the most, is the tiny marakuja. It’s gourd-like shell in it’s bright yellows and oranges, yields a tangy, citrus flavored pulp that has the added contrast of edible seeds. I can still see Alise, the marakuja girl standing at my back door, her firm breasts bulging from her undersized blouse - middle buttons missing in strategic places, that gave you the hint that at any moment you might get a glimpse of her darkened buds. She always wore that look in her eyes that she knew what you wanted to see, and enjoyed just the thought of it. We would haggle the price of her marakujas, and then I would always provide her with a ‘tip’. Before she would hoist her basket back to its perch atop her head, she would untie her wrap around, full-length skirt, and give me quick view of those muscular legs, and do it so naturally, as if to say, “We have finished our business.” Oh-h-h! If she had only known the business that I had in mind for those powerful thighs and coffee-hued breasts.
I settle myself in to write about my African fruit choices. Words are ready to splash onto the paper, when I begin to notice something rolling under my foot. I reach down, only to discover some kind of lip roll. I smell its strawberry scent and decide it must have eluded the lady of surprises, when she spilled her purse’s contents across the floor. The 17 students are mostly sitting at the other end of the room, but between they and I sits Ms., or perhaps, Mrs. Annie Doyle. I wonder which it might be. A portion of the class are moving around the room, looking I suppose for just the right inspirational seat, so I scoop up my belongings and approach my wacky writing colleague, hoping to return the errant treasure to its owner.
I walk to the back of the room, thinking that I will have the element of surprise, if I approach her from the rear. As I near, her feminine shape gives my heart a start. God, all of these sensual modifiers have got me thinking it’s been too long since I enjoyed the pleasures of a lady. I reach out with one hand to tap her shoulder, and quietly say, “Annie, I think this might belong to you.” I hold the lip roll in my open palm for her to see, and her startled look quickly turns into a hungry smile.
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sorry, wrong time for this.
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erosman
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Sorry for the delay Enchanted, work has been a merciless taskmaster.
We finish our class with a discussion group, to talk about what we had written. Annie Doyle seems to be a little preoccupied, and isn’t saying much. We exchange glances at first, and then our eye contact becomes more steady, like a mantle of comfort is settling in between us. My African fruit descriptions create quite an interest in my Peace Corp experiences. Besides Annie and I, there are three others in our group, all much younger than the two of us. There is Win, a sophomore whose parents immigrated from Thailand; Veronica, a sophomore transfer who wants to be a journalist; and Maria, a Latino gal whose heavy accent emboldens her dark lusty eyes with a sensuality that is most unnerving. In fact her lingering glances begin to make me self-conscious of my growing interest in her.
Ever since that time in Kansas City and our FFA(Future Farmers of America)trip, I had felt an attraction for the dark, Latino eyes, and the hungry thoughts that they projected. It was early March - before spring thaw - and we were attending a statewide convention. We were staying downtown in the Best Western, and I was sharing a room with my good friend Tom Brinkman. Tom had an older cousin, Guy, who lived in Kansas City, and he had promised to show Tom some sights of the big city when we came to KC. Guy had arranged to come by the hotel on Saturday night and take us for a cruise of the town. When he pulled up in front of this seedy bar with a dimly lit ‘Topless Dancers’ sign, Tom and I couldn’t believe our luck. “Hey, Guy, we aren’t old enough to go inside here,” I reluctantly protested. Laughing as he jumped out, Guy just motioned for us to come along with him. He talked in hushed tones with the doorman while gesturing to us, then paid the guy a cover charge, and pulled us inside the bar. I’ll never forget the smile that doorman wore as we slinked past him. Once inside, Guy huddled us around in the vestibule, and gave us instructions in a loud voice that we could barely hear over the pulsing music that was jarring the room through the open doorway. “No drinking…and act natural. We don’t want you to be noticed,” Guy shouted, and with that, we headed for what Tom and I had always dreamed of seeing.
The darkness in the room made me squint at first, as I tried to focus through the smoky atmosphere at what appeared to be a stage, where a woman was dancing wildly to the music. Guy weaved a path through the tables to the far side of the room, where we had a side view of the stage area. Tom and I sat there trying to act cool, when in reality our insides were bursting with excitement. I don’t really recall the first hour that we were in there. I think it was a sensory overload. But, then Olivia Newton-John’s ‘Let’s Get Physical’ began to play and this incredible Latino woman stepped out and started to dance. I had never felt so attracted to a performance of anything before. Her smooth brown skin, and her jet black hair were drawing me into her dancing fantasy. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of the umber colored nipples of her breasts, as they seemed to move in a dance all their own. Her dark, hypnotic eyes were synchronized with her nipples as she invited all to enjoy the passion of her lovely body. The g-string she wore left little to the imagination, and the tightness of her ass begged to be drummed. I think that I quit breathing about half way through the first chorus, and Guy just laughed at me when she finished and I let out a big sigh. I shall never forget that smoky bar and the way that my heart felt drawn to that Latino flesh.
Back in my present reality, I was trying my best to hide the excitement that I felt as Maria talked in our discussion group. The same aroused feeling from years before was beginning to grip my mind, and I feared that my lack of courteous filters might let something slip from the dark pages of my heart. The dilemma was only heightened when I would turn and meet Annie’s eyes. Maria was a feeling from my past, but this Annie lady had the knowing look of a woman whose experience seemed to speak through not just her blue eyes, but her entire body language. I was starting to get a little sloppy with my comments as my searing mind reeled from the intensity I felt brewing with these two ladies. One was young and innocent acting, the other was more secure and knowing. My hungry fantasies wanted to devour them both, but like a bolt of lightning I came back to my familiar senses. I had to laugh at my bold presumption that either was more than politely interested in my simple stories related through this creative writing exercise.
Ms. Stark ended the class with some further emphasis on using the senses as we wrote for our next class time. Win grabbed his books in a flash and muttered something about wanting to get home to watch the Olympic highlights, and with that we all began our departure. I realized that I had left my knapsack at the first chair where I had sat, and so I returned to get it as the classroom emptied. I secured my belongings inside it and thanked Ms Stark for her work as I headed for the door. As I approached the door and the hallway beyond, I could see that Maria was lingering slightly behind the other students. As I passed her, she quickened her step to stay beside me. We began to chat about our schedules, but when we rounded the corner to the buildings main entrance, I saw that Annie had paused to put her coat on. Immediately, the twenty steps distance between us was bridged with eye contact announcing her desire to say something to me. I was trying to pause my conversation with Maria without turning her completely off, when Annie turned and headed out the door. In just a few strides, Maria and I were out the door as well, and traversing the courtyard to the well lit parking lot.
It was a cold, clear night and our breaths sent out signals of hope that we were harboring a warmth inside that could at least momentarily penetrate the cold darkness. As we approached the parking lot, Maria remarked that her ride was here, and began waving at a compact car with its lights on and engine running. It raced up to where we were stepping off the curb and in another moment she was in the car and rolling out of sight. I stood there for a moment and weighed the evening’s events, as a first snowflake christened my nose with its cold kiss. I turned to the lonely parking lot, where the people had seemingly vanished into the solace of their vehicles. Annie was nowhere in sight. Alertly I listened for the starting of car engines and with each noise I would look for signs of this surprising woman. Finally, I resigned myself to another botched evening of loneliness, with only memories to warm me.
The cold had already settled into the engine of the 1986 Landcruiser that I drove. It took three tries before it would run without nursing its choke. I adjusted the heater to defrost, and checked the digitally displayed time on the radio, 8:37. I backed out of my end parking spot and began crawling towards the exit. I paused and yielded to another waiting car, and that is when I noticed someone rummaging in the trunk of the adjacent car. From my angle of vision, I could see the disappointment of a tire flattened against the frozen asphalt. With the Landcruiser engine still chugging, I set the parking brake, grabbed my gloves and jumped out to see if I could help get the tire changed. What a surprise when the small frame that was struggling to loosen the wheel nuts turned her face, and it was Annie Doyle.
We finish our class with a discussion group, to talk about what we had written. Annie Doyle seems to be a little preoccupied, and isn’t saying much. We exchange glances at first, and then our eye contact becomes more steady, like a mantle of comfort is settling in between us. My African fruit descriptions create quite an interest in my Peace Corp experiences. Besides Annie and I, there are three others in our group, all much younger than the two of us. There is Win, a sophomore whose parents immigrated from Thailand; Veronica, a sophomore transfer who wants to be a journalist; and Maria, a Latino gal whose heavy accent emboldens her dark lusty eyes with a sensuality that is most unnerving. In fact her lingering glances begin to make me self-conscious of my growing interest in her.
Ever since that time in Kansas City and our FFA(Future Farmers of America)trip, I had felt an attraction for the dark, Latino eyes, and the hungry thoughts that they projected. It was early March - before spring thaw - and we were attending a statewide convention. We were staying downtown in the Best Western, and I was sharing a room with my good friend Tom Brinkman. Tom had an older cousin, Guy, who lived in Kansas City, and he had promised to show Tom some sights of the big city when we came to KC. Guy had arranged to come by the hotel on Saturday night and take us for a cruise of the town. When he pulled up in front of this seedy bar with a dimly lit ‘Topless Dancers’ sign, Tom and I couldn’t believe our luck. “Hey, Guy, we aren’t old enough to go inside here,” I reluctantly protested. Laughing as he jumped out, Guy just motioned for us to come along with him. He talked in hushed tones with the doorman while gesturing to us, then paid the guy a cover charge, and pulled us inside the bar. I’ll never forget the smile that doorman wore as we slinked past him. Once inside, Guy huddled us around in the vestibule, and gave us instructions in a loud voice that we could barely hear over the pulsing music that was jarring the room through the open doorway. “No drinking…and act natural. We don’t want you to be noticed,” Guy shouted, and with that, we headed for what Tom and I had always dreamed of seeing.
The darkness in the room made me squint at first, as I tried to focus through the smoky atmosphere at what appeared to be a stage, where a woman was dancing wildly to the music. Guy weaved a path through the tables to the far side of the room, where we had a side view of the stage area. Tom and I sat there trying to act cool, when in reality our insides were bursting with excitement. I don’t really recall the first hour that we were in there. I think it was a sensory overload. But, then Olivia Newton-John’s ‘Let’s Get Physical’ began to play and this incredible Latino woman stepped out and started to dance. I had never felt so attracted to a performance of anything before. Her smooth brown skin, and her jet black hair were drawing me into her dancing fantasy. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of the umber colored nipples of her breasts, as they seemed to move in a dance all their own. Her dark, hypnotic eyes were synchronized with her nipples as she invited all to enjoy the passion of her lovely body. The g-string she wore left little to the imagination, and the tightness of her ass begged to be drummed. I think that I quit breathing about half way through the first chorus, and Guy just laughed at me when she finished and I let out a big sigh. I shall never forget that smoky bar and the way that my heart felt drawn to that Latino flesh.
Back in my present reality, I was trying my best to hide the excitement that I felt as Maria talked in our discussion group. The same aroused feeling from years before was beginning to grip my mind, and I feared that my lack of courteous filters might let something slip from the dark pages of my heart. The dilemma was only heightened when I would turn and meet Annie’s eyes. Maria was a feeling from my past, but this Annie lady had the knowing look of a woman whose experience seemed to speak through not just her blue eyes, but her entire body language. I was starting to get a little sloppy with my comments as my searing mind reeled from the intensity I felt brewing with these two ladies. One was young and innocent acting, the other was more secure and knowing. My hungry fantasies wanted to devour them both, but like a bolt of lightning I came back to my familiar senses. I had to laugh at my bold presumption that either was more than politely interested in my simple stories related through this creative writing exercise.
Ms. Stark ended the class with some further emphasis on using the senses as we wrote for our next class time. Win grabbed his books in a flash and muttered something about wanting to get home to watch the Olympic highlights, and with that we all began our departure. I realized that I had left my knapsack at the first chair where I had sat, and so I returned to get it as the classroom emptied. I secured my belongings inside it and thanked Ms Stark for her work as I headed for the door. As I approached the door and the hallway beyond, I could see that Maria was lingering slightly behind the other students. As I passed her, she quickened her step to stay beside me. We began to chat about our schedules, but when we rounded the corner to the buildings main entrance, I saw that Annie had paused to put her coat on. Immediately, the twenty steps distance between us was bridged with eye contact announcing her desire to say something to me. I was trying to pause my conversation with Maria without turning her completely off, when Annie turned and headed out the door. In just a few strides, Maria and I were out the door as well, and traversing the courtyard to the well lit parking lot.
It was a cold, clear night and our breaths sent out signals of hope that we were harboring a warmth inside that could at least momentarily penetrate the cold darkness. As we approached the parking lot, Maria remarked that her ride was here, and began waving at a compact car with its lights on and engine running. It raced up to where we were stepping off the curb and in another moment she was in the car and rolling out of sight. I stood there for a moment and weighed the evening’s events, as a first snowflake christened my nose with its cold kiss. I turned to the lonely parking lot, where the people had seemingly vanished into the solace of their vehicles. Annie was nowhere in sight. Alertly I listened for the starting of car engines and with each noise I would look for signs of this surprising woman. Finally, I resigned myself to another botched evening of loneliness, with only memories to warm me.
The cold had already settled into the engine of the 1986 Landcruiser that I drove. It took three tries before it would run without nursing its choke. I adjusted the heater to defrost, and checked the digitally displayed time on the radio, 8:37. I backed out of my end parking spot and began crawling towards the exit. I paused and yielded to another waiting car, and that is when I noticed someone rummaging in the trunk of the adjacent car. From my angle of vision, I could see the disappointment of a tire flattened against the frozen asphalt. With the Landcruiser engine still chugging, I set the parking brake, grabbed my gloves and jumped out to see if I could help get the tire changed. What a surprise when the small frame that was struggling to loosen the wheel nuts turned her face, and it was Annie Doyle.
