Interlude on a dark afternoon Part 2

a cool gust of wind will enchant me
remind me, all over again,
I miss you better in the rain.
― Sanober Khan

I rescued a girl one dark afternoon who twisted her ankle on an icy walk.

I sensed a mystery between us and it only deepened as we talked.

So as evening obscured the world outside, I sought for answers in her eyes

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

“A little, I suppose—they make the best Jalapeño Poppers here—they’re really addictive,” she giggled.

And for a brief moment she was vulnerable—I hadn’t realized how guarded she had been up until then but dismissed the thought believing it was simply a natural reticence. Maybe she was warming to me.

“What do you do for a living, Em?”

A pained look crossed her features, and I wished I hadn’t asked.

At first, I thought she was going to disregard the question, but something inside her changed and then, I saw her features harden again.

“I’m an escort, Paul—I started off as a runway model, but when I hit my mid-twenties, that career was over, so I worked for a while in public relations, but finally ended up here.”

She said the last word with disdain as if it reminded her of something disgusting.

I put together the pieces and then knew why she didn’t want to return to the gallery—she wasn’t there as a patron, but as a client. My mind tried to wrap itself around the notion that this lovely goddess across from me was in reality, a high-end call girl.

“Look, you don’t have to stay now,” she said harshly, and her tone startled me. “You’ve done your shining knight routine, and I’ll be fine—I’ll call a cab.”

“I’m not judging you, Em. I’m here because I enjoy your company—that’s it, plain and simple.”

“That would be funny if that were true, but in my business that kind of line is just an opener. Sorry if it sounds harsh, but it’s the way it is.”

A sudden anger flared inside me—I resented being compared to her johns—and I actually did like her—at least, until that moment.

“Maybe you think you know men, and maybe you do—but I’m not like most men. I saw something in you, Em—something tender and vulnerable. I don’t care what you do.”

She softened, and her huge eyes grew moist. “You’re sweet, Paul, and I know you really believe that, but you don’t know what it’s like to be me. If you’ve got some crazy idea we can be friends, or even something more, forget about it. You’re just going to buy yourself a whole lot of heartache.”

“But you said you were a romantic.”

She tossed her head in scorn. “Like I said, it was a romantic notion—to crawl inside a picture, like some kind of Norman Rockwell scene that I’ve never known and probably couldn’t even begin to feel.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Her face went hard as stone. “I know one thing—my mother was right—all men lie, and it’s been proven over and over again in my life.”

The waitress came and dropped the food. The air went dead between us. It was strange—the warm inviting aroma of food and the counterpoint of an icy chill falling over us.

“I think you better go, Paul.” She said the words softly, sadly, but with finality. There’d be no debating her view.

I dropped several twenties on the table, slowly buttoned up my coat and left. I wanted to say something, but the words stuck in my throat.

Five years have passed since then, and like a ghost that won’t be laid to rest, her face comes back to haunt me.

It’s foolish for me to feel this way, or imagine she feels the same way too—after all, she was forewarned against men—this was how it was bound to end.

Still, I find myself talking to her in my head.

I never cared for you. How could I, Em?

But when raindrops start, I keep searching for a place to go—a haven out of the night, someplace safe from ice and storms…

A cozy nook, protected from the wind, where perhaps our paths will cross again.

Photo: https://goo.gl/images/vHTKL4