I Met a Woman
A tiny bathroom, filled with hanging ceramic art threatening to shatter, never to be restored, that’s where we’re parked, me and her, on a Saturday evening.
Earlier, I tune out the rest of the partiers, hyper focused on the woman next to me. As we talk and laugh, I take in so much more: Her face captivates; her smile charms.
Stop.
Can’t.
Eyes dance devilish; hair sways carefree; voice carries a touch of sand paper roughing up the mellifluous. The conversation flows, moving, curling, exploring. You like? Mm-mmm. You like this? Mm-mmm.
She teaches theater to kids.
I like theater.
She directs high school shows.
I want to do that.
We talk about choices for high school shows. I’m talking Dear Even Hanson not Young Frankenstein; Sound of Music, not Urinetown; Into the Woods, not Oliver. She’s sees nothing wrong with Urinetown.
I move to a different part of the party. I look around. Lots of engaged conversation. It’s getting towards the end of the book, this party. You either got a plot going or you’re not going to. Do I want to break in on some of these well developed storylines? No. Time to go home.
Wait a minute. What about the woman? What about that story? I know, I know. But we’re cutting into my sleep. I’m wedded to eight hours. I don’t want to cheat on that. I don’t want that wasted next day, the rhythms still playing, only I’m stumbling; my throat, scotch scratchy; my appetite, confused; my mind, New Jersey clogged. Nope. Not worth it. Don’t want it.
Turn and go. That’s it. No, no, don’t look back. Put a period on it. Walk away. See? That wasn’t hard.
“Hey! I gotta show you this bathroom!”
I turn.
Her hand whirls like a helicopter, motioning me to come over.
I’m led into a cozy – real estate term for fucking tiny – half bathroom. Glazed terra-cotta plates hang everywhere. Walls vibrate apricot and fuchsia, producing a warmth that makes dough rise. She leans dangerously back against the wall, tilting up a few of the fragile plates. I touch her shoulder. Wouldn’t want to have to explain this to our host. We quote Seinfeld episodes, chapter and verse. Somebody sprayed the verbal floor with WD-40. We’re sliding all over the place, giddy with laughter.
“This is weird, talking in this bathroom,” I say.
“Not until you mentioned it.”
I back out, and she follows.
I say goodbye.
“Wait a minute. You don’t have my phone number.”
“I’ll get it later,” I say and keep walking.
I drive home. I’m jazzed. Haven’t felt this way in a long time. She’s fun. So much laughter. Ahhh, the magic of parties. Was that all it was? What about a next time. How will that go? I’m anxious.
A week later, I get out of my car in the parking lot. I’m late, as usual. I speed towards the meeting thinking I’ll talk with her after. She ambles towards me out of the dusk.
A smile swipes right across my face.