I see her again and again. Each time I become more enamored. However, my life is too complicated to bring someone new into it. And, we simply aren’t meant for each other.

I first posted this story in June of 2018. It was well-received but I was never content with it. I’ve given it a major rewrite and hopefully improved its message.

Her
By Angela Rasch

The first time I saw her I thought she was someone I had known long ago. I struggled to place her face and to recall her name – because she seemed important to me.

She was sitting in “my” chair, at a table I often used, in my favorite coffee shop. Like Sheldon’s spot on the brown leather couch, in The Big Bang Theory, “my” spot was perfect. In the winter, that chair sat close enough to the forced hot-air blowing from an overhead vent for me to remain toasty, and yet not so close to the heat as to cause a person to perspire. In the summer, when they propped open the outer door, it caught a refreshing breeze every time someone opened the inner door. It faced the television at an angle that wasn’t so direct that it demanded your attention, nor so far off to the side to create that maddening darkness – if there were ever anything on the tube that warranted attention.

The chair was located far enough away from where they did most of the work on the drinks so that I wasn’t overcome by unwanted pungent fumes. By the time they reached my nose, they had become pleasant, sugary bouquets.

I sat in my secondary spot, slightly miffed by her intrusion before I gave her a second glance. I quickly determined that she wasn’t an old and cherished friend. She actually didn’t look like anyone I’d ever met. However, she had the aura of a person I wished I could have as a life-long acquaintance.

Her eyes spoke of a deep honesty. It would be shocking to ever catch her in so much as a little-white-lie. Although she wore glasses, their frames did nothing to hide enchanting hazel eyes -- flung wide open to see everything the world had to offer.

She might be totally different than what I’ve surmised. Things aren’t always as they seem. For example; even though I’m a regular in this bistro, I don’t drink anything with caffeine. My interest in this coffee shop centers on their free Wi-Fi and raspberry/chocolate ice cream.

She smiled often while she read. From the markings on its spine, her book came from the county library.

With some effort, I made out its title: The Notebook.

Evidently, she finds Nicholas Sparks highly amusing.

Her hand frequently brushed shiny auburn curls away from her face. Although, given the thickness of her hair and how rigorously curly she kept it, her graceful efforts were elegant but mostly in vain.

My own hair had grown to beyond shoulder-length. My youngest granddaughter loved to finger “grandpa’s curls” while I read Dr. Seuss to her. The way it brushed my shoulders fascinated me and eclipsed my daughter’s protest that I needed to “do something” about it. I’m retired and no longer need to make other people happy.

The woman’s firm breasts seemed to indicate youthfulness -- or at least a lifestyle centered in healthy activity. She appeared to be about my age and carried her maturity with a great deal of self-respect.

She showed just the right amount of skin for a July morning. Several other women, who noisily slurped lattes, seemed to think anything pale and wrinkled should be flaunted. Her flawless complexion testified to overall fitness and vigor.

She sipped from a reusable water bottle and nibbled on a bran muffin. Although I wouldn’t say she was a sun-worshipper, she obviously spent time outdoors. I would have guessed her to be an avid gardener, but her delicate hands looked like they would be much more at home arranging flowers than digging in peat moss.

Perhaps she’s careful and uses protective gloves.

I started to ask myself the normal questions that run through a person’s idle mind. Is she a potential sexual partner for me? Would I have a chance with her? What would be the best way to meet her?

I was surprised by those thoughts.

It had been about a half-century since I had been in the market for a mate. Sherry and I had been married for forty-seven years. Twenty-eight months ago, she passed away suddenly in her sleep -- from heart failure. At my age, marriage to someone else hadn’t even been a consideration.

If I was looking for a new spouse, this woman would be ideal.

I shook my head, feeling unfaithful to Sherry’s memory, but granted myself one more look in her direction.

Our eyes connected and she grinned. “I’ve read this a dozen times.” She held up her book. “I’m still torn over whether Ryan Gosling should have been cast as Noah in the movie. He’s such a great actor -- but it wasn’t his best performance.”

I nodded. I hadn’t seen the movie, or read the book. I’d wanted to . . . but real men don’t go to chick flicks or read romance novels . . . and I had careened through life carefully guarding what people thought of me.

“You’re sitting in my chair,” I blurted.

Her face turned a charming and quite pretty scarlet. “Oh! I’m terribly sorry. I can see why you’d want to sit here. It’s very comfortable.” She rose to move.

“No,” I said hurriedly. “I meant to compliment you on your good taste in picking that spot.” She’s so delightfully elegant! “Please don’t move. You look lovely sitting there.” Lovely! I could feel my face redden.

She had found a way to be even more beautiful while standing. Her flowered shirtdress drew attention to attractive legs that seemed to be about five percent longer than normal for someone of her statuesque height. Her lower extremities ended in peach sandals that matched the accents on her dress.

My eyes caught the time on my computer screen. In ten minutes, I have to meet my daughter, Laura. Today is going to be a big day for me . . . and her. After all these years, I’m finally going to tell her.

“I’ve got to go,” I explained. “Please accept my apologies for disturbing you. You have every right to sit in that chair.” Her jasmine perfume floated into my welcoming nostrils. Something expensive. It probably cost more per ounce than I spend for cable a month.

Her book slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a thud.

I knelt before her and retrieved it.

“Thank you!” She smiled broadly, as if she just uncovered a pleasant secret. “Have a nice day,” she said brightly and in such a way that I was convinced she had been the very first to bestow such a wonderful blessing.

She would be a great sexual partner, and I’ve just blown whatever scant opportunity I ever had to be with her, by being such a dolt about “my” chair.

***

The second time I saw her was in the small park three blocks from my home; just over a week later. Most of those seven days had been spent in tearful reflection. My daughter had not reacted the way I had hoped. In fact, she hated my revelation.

Laura’s initial response had been, “You pervert! And to think that I’ve been leaving you alone with Emma and Sophia. That will never happen again. In fact, I don’t know if I want you around them at all.”

I had expected reasonable, compassionate acceptance from my only child and certainly hadn’t thought she would take the nuclear option, by preventing me from seeing my grandchildren. She eventual softened -- but only slightly.

I shuddered at the memory of the worst day of my life, and then focused on the present and the vision that was...her.

In my dreams of her, I’d named her Alexandra, or Beatrice, or Diana, or Brigette --and decided she’d been a literary agent who discovered young writers of children’s books. She had retired to run a non-profit that funded start-up food shelves. In reality, all I really knew about her was that she was incredibly lovely.

The woman was wearing a pair of skinny jeans -- white and coordinated with her fuchsia topper over a white scoop-necked T and brown canvas espadrilles. Her eyes sparkled when she saw me, or so I hoped.

She stopped.

I also came to a halt, not wanting to appear rude. Her face is flawless.

“I haven’t been sitting in your spot,” she said with a devilish grin.

“I’m so sorry for that,” I started. “Please forget I ever said anything about that stupid chair.”

“That’s like sticking me in the corner, and then telling me I can get out as soon as I quit thinking about pink elephants.” She laughed.

I could feel my face break out of the frown it had been stuck with, ever since my daughter had expressed her unbridled disappointment in me.

“You must think I’m cut from the same cloth as Mrs. Reed,” I pointed toward her copy of Jane Eyre.

“On the contrary,” she giggled. “Now – please don’t take this wrong, but if I were going to compare you to a character in Jane Eyre, it would be Miss Temple. Your face is just so kind and sweet.”

I could feel myself blush. It’s ironic how upset I get when people say something that makes me sound feminine.

“Oh,” she said. “Today it’s my turn to scoot. I’m meeting with my daughter and need to rush home to change my clothes. She’s so conservative! I have my riding clothes, my walking clothes, my everyday clothes, and my ‘daughter’ clothes.” Her smile faded slightly for a second. “Have a nice day.” She walked away about fifteen feet, before she stopped, turned, and waved.

Although the sky was cloudless, her wide smile added to its brightness.

She’s pleased to see that I’ve been watching her leave. I waved back.

***

Almost a month passed before I saw her again. She was attending Sunday morning mass, at my church. I hadn’t noticed her until I sat, but she was in the same pew, with just a young couple between us.

I’d spent the previous day with Laura and the girls. Laura had invested time and money in productive counseling. She and her therapist had concluded that I was a wonderful parent, whose only fault was raising an “uninformed daughter.” A daughter who now understood my needs and would be extremely supportive of my decisions.

The priest delivered a sermon about compassion that seemed out-of-place within the church’s rigidity. Its “rigidity” stopped me from taking communion, ever since I decided to dress more often to match my internal self, even if it was only in my home. The church and I were in utter disagreement over what clothing I should wear. The priests were mostly frustratingly silent on what concerned me, but my confessor had told me that he would pray for me, which spoke volumes.

And, I had more secular matters on my mind.

She was dressed in a sleek, knit, floor-length, rose dress with dangly, gold earrings. Her pearl necklace paired perfectly.

For the first time, I noticed an absence of any significant rings.

My heart stopped for a moment. If she was a married woman, certainly her husband would attend mass with her.

I’d love to stay after mass and talk to her but I promised to meet the monsignor in the rectory at 10:00 and I’m already late.

I got up and left without approaching her, although I allowed several luscious moments to pass on the short walk to the rectory, while daydreaming about possibly spending time with her.

As if!

If I were being honest, and presented myself like I want to, she wouldn’t have anything to do with me.

***

A week later, I was back at my coffee shop, sitting in my chair, reading an online newspaper, when I heard what sounded like an argument.

“It’s our corporate bathroom policy,” the young barista stated with obvious embarrassment. “I don’t make the rules, but if I want to keep my job. . ..”

“It’s a stupid rule,” she mocked, in a voice that didn’t equivocate.

“I know that you’re a woman now,” the young man whined, “but, I also knew you when you were my biology teacher -- and you were ‘Mr.’ Stone then.”

“I’m ‘Ms.’ Stone now and. . ..” She stopped and looked at me. “Hello.” She smiled. “It appears our host doesn’t know what year this is. Somehow they’ve made policies that would have been much more appropriate decades ago.”

She looked more beautiful than ever in flowing white, crinkled gauze skirt and matching top with flirty, ruffled, long sleeves.

I laughed internally at my own foolishness, and then closed my eyes and thought of a similar skirt and top, which were hanging deep in my closet. I felt ashamed. Here she is -- challenging a world that isn’t always friendly, while I.... “Let’s find a much better coffee shop,” I said loudly. “We have a lot to talk about.”

I took her hand. We both smiled, and then we left what had been my favorite coffee shop -- that contained my favorite chair – knowing that I would never return.

We had walked in bliss for only a few yards when she turned to me. “I have a strange confession to make. The first time I saw you, I asked myself, ‘Why is that gorgeous woman wearing men’s clothing?’”

I blushed. “As long as we’re telling secrets – I also have something to disclose.” I gathered myself, and then took the plunge. “I fell hopelessly in love with you the first time I saw you.”

“Me, too.” She happily admitted.

Wonderful! My heart raced.

Her face clouded slightly. “And – what do you think – now that you know about me?”

I bit my lip. “There’s something you should know about me.”

She dismissed what I was about to say with a wave of her hand. “That first day -- I detected the pleasing aroma of a subtle perfume coming from you . . . Amazing Grace, I believe.”

I nodded and closed my eyes for a moment.

“Then I dropped my book so that you would need to bend over to pick it up for me. When you did, I saw what I suspected I would -- pink panties peeking out from under your belt.”

“I. . .er. . ..”

“Then, when we met in the park, I looked for other indications and noticed remnants of mascara around your eyes.”

My blush deepened.

“In church,” she said in a voice that sounded like the tune from my favorite music box, “while you were staring so intently at my hands, I was looking at yours. There were telltale red specks under your cuticles and indentations on your fingers left by thin, feminine rings.”

“We’re a pair,” I admitted. “Will it work?” I then asked hopefully. “I’m very attracted to you but. . ..”

“Minor details!” She leaned into me and pecked me on the cheek.

I totally agreed with . . . her.

The End

A few weeks ago, I unpublished my stories on this site. I’ve decided to bring them back with updates and editing. I hope you enjoy them.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:

Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Thing You Always Died For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Sexy, Cute, and Popular
Bringing Good Cheer
Baseball Annie

I’ve also allowed Erin to place several of my stories under Premium Stories.

The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
The Ninth Fold
Voices Carry Over Water
Residue
To Alleviate Suffering