this one woman.
The unexpected surprise is that Eric’s impending wedding has put her in the forefront of my mind. I met her at a wedding, well, the night before. It was my brother’s wedding, and I’d gotten into town late. I told myself I’d have one drink in the hotel bar to wind down from the flight and let my body adjust to the time difference. With a beer in hand, I made my way out of the loud piano bar and outside to a patio.
There she was.
Was she beautiful?
Without question.
Was I attracted?
No doubt.
Did I do something about it?
For one of the first times in my life, I did.
I could blame my brother, but he wasn’t there. The thing is that I’d spent the entire flight from Washington to Indiana thinking about my brother’s wedding. I was and am happy for him. My sister-in-law, Kimbra, is a great lady. I’d gotten to know her before my job moved me across the country. It’s just that there is this brotherly competition.
It started innocently enough when as kids we wrestled for the controller to our favorite game or the remote to the television. He was always good at football, so I excelled in wrestling. He made good grades. I made better.
I can’t blame our parents. They didn’t pick favorites or make either of us feel less than the other. It’s simply part of brothers’ DNA, an inherent need to one-up the other.
One place I always fell short was on the dating front. I’m not saying I’m not as good-looking. Hell, I know that isn’t true. I’m way better looking than him!
Okay, granted, attractiveness is subjective.
If I were to truly analyze it, I believe deep down it’s a confidence thing. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t go to his wedding stag. I had everything all planned out—that’s what I do. As a matter of fact, it was Eric’s fiancée, Cynthia, who joined me as my pretend date.
And yet when I walked onto that bar’s patio that night in Indianapolis, Indiana, I regretted all my planning. There on the patio of the piano bar was a vision. With long blonde hair and big blue eyes, she should have screamed untouchable to me. She’s the type of beauty that honestly scares the shit out of me, but she didn’t.
I don’t know why.
I didn’t question.
There was just something about her—an aura. Hell, I don’t know. I just know that throwing caution to the wind, I approached her. We spoke.
It’s not like I’m the guy on the TV show with the smart friends who becomes mute around women. I can talk. It’s that when it’s not about work or a project, the conversation feels forced. Nothing about communicating with this woman was forced.
We talked and drank.
It was later that night when we were coerced into partaking in celebratory shots inside the bar that things got out of hand.
I’ll never forget her standing there, laughing. She was wearing this blue dress that hugged all the right places and heels that accentuated her shapely legs. She was laughing, and then all at once, her expression changed and well, the shots didn’t stay down.
Yes, that’s not an attractive scene, but what followed was better.
She was so embarrassed by what she’d done that she made us flee the scene.
Not leave through the door. No...that would have been too easy. She looked at the mess, looked at me, and yelled, “Run!”
We ran.
Scaled a fence, wandered through a parking garage, and finally snuck through tunnels.
It was the most fun I’d had in years.
It was as if instead of an engineer who planned everything in his life, I was spontaneous and free. She did that to me. With her hand in mine, I was someone else. Helping her escape while keeping her safe were my only thoughts.
From that moment on, I wanted her, all of her, but that night she wasn’t exactly in a position to consent to more than my assistance. It wasn’t that she fought me off, but then again, she wasn’t coming on to me either. She isn’t that type of woman. Her purse and room key were MIA after our little excursion. The hotel refused to provide another key without identification. Taking her to my room was all I could think to do. Once there, she fell sound asleep. Like Sleeping Beauty from the fairy tale, it wasn’t until morning when I kissed her forehead that she finally awoke.
I’m a thirty-three-year-old man who admittedly still has fantasies. Perhaps with the time