I pace my small living area, stopping at the window and flicking open the blind. It’s sunny, a bit of Indian summer in November. I decide to run, forgo writing a new afternoon post. I set up an older post—“Stupid Activities Only Moms with Cleaning Staff Allow Their Kids to Do”—to run on repeat, and lace up my shoes.
Noticing a plethora of young people out doing their thing, I’m reminded I live near three universities. They’re smiling, willing away winter, enjoying the afternoon warmth, running or walking in pairs or trios. College feels like a lifetime ago to me.
I take a new path, down through the neighboring park and across a university quad, extending my run longer than usual. I wonder what the young’uns think of me. Am I attractive? Old? Flabby?
Relatively speaking, I’m still young. Thirty-one may be ancient to these tadpoles, but I’m not a wrinkled toad yet. I consider dating and think, should I? Could I? The same thoughts and concerns cross my mind that always do when I think about making a life with a man, a new one, one who won’t flee.
I’m deep in self-deprecation, my mind racing through options—Botox, a new vibrator, at what point do women need absorbent underwear?—when I smack into a pole. Literally, I collide with something hard.
“You okay?”
Except, poles don’t talk or ask you if you’re okay.
I will myself to look up and find myself face-to-face with none other than Reid, Mr. G and G, but he doesn’t know who I am other than a disheveled mom. At the very least, that’s what I tell myself in my head.
He’s in a pair of straight-leg khakis, oh-so-tight in all the best places, a navy button-down loose at the collar, and a leather jacket. To top it off, he’s sporting aviator shades à la Tom Cruise inTop Gun. It’s a good look.
A very, very good look.
If I believed in Hollywood romance and rom-coms, this would be my meet-cute. My second one including our meet-and-greet on Halloween. Sadly, this isn’t Hollywood, and my life doesn’t include serendipitous meet-cutes. Instead, my life is full of unlucky coincidences.
“Sorry. I was in a haze.”
“That’s pretty dangerous when running, wouldn’t you say? Under the influence and running,” he deadpans.
“No, that’s not what I meant ... by haze,” I say, and my voice croaks. I try to hide how flustered I am, but I swear my heart is pounding so hard, you can see it through my thin pink shirt.
Broad smile, white teeth, a single dimple, tiny crinkles around his eyes, glasses on top of his dark hair ... he’s the whole package.
“I was joking. You sure you’re okay ... it’s Andi, right? Or Wonder Woman? We met ... with your girls. I offered them apples.”
“Girl. One girl. And her friend. And definitely no superpowers here, as you can see from my haphazard running.”
I realize I’m holding one finger up in the air like a dork, and quickly shove my hands behind my back. Stupid, stupid move. Now my cleavage is jutting out in his face like a wanton thirty-something slut in a meet-cute.
“Right, now I remember. One girl. You feel okay? You want to sit? I’m a pretty hard surface ... I don’t mean to brag.” He motions to a bench, and I side-eye him. “Kidding, again. This is me raising the white flag. No more bad jokes.”
“I’m cool.” I bring my hands to my sides and try to look casual. “I have to remind myself not to think so hard when running, though.” I fidget with the zippered pockets on the side of my pants, then reach up to tighten my ponytail.
“You run around here a lot?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you said no more bad jokes? I see that didn’t mean silly pickup lines too.”
“No, I mean ... I’m a runner, and I’ve never seen you running here. Do you teach here? Or go to school?”
“Reid, right?” I toss back his same nonchalant recognition, and he nods. “I don’t know what you want, but I have to get back for the school bus. I ran a little farther than usual today, so if you don’t mind ...”
“Yeah, it’s cool. I was in some kind of weird mood anyhow. Seriously, have a good one.”
He lets me off the hook, just like that, and all of a sudden I’m pissed.
No way I show it, though. I saythanksand pick up speed.
“Hey, wait,” he calls out when I’m halfway down the sidewalk.
I stop and turn, half begrudgingly, half hopeful. For one more moment, I’m not anonymous or a single mother, but a young coed, sexual attraction crackling around me.
“You dropped this. Here.” He extends his hand toward me, and in his palm is my hamsa bracelet.
