Once upon a time

She’d longed to be a romance writer.  On a break between classes she taught at the local college, she’d taken a quick drive to Seal Beach to mourn another lost love.  She wore black suede heels, misty gray nylons, a black skirt slit above her knees, and a sweater one size too small that she’d borrowed from her daughter.  (Since it embodied images of panda bears, it probably destroyed the mood.)

She strolled along the old wood pier watching wetsuit clad surfers in their glory on the glistening curl.  Waves splashed against the tar-blackened posts, and a dashing young man in a Polo shirt and walking shorts approached.  He stopped.  She couldn’t believe it.  Stopped, right beside her.  Then he hesitated, penetrating her solemn thought with the cast of his mood ring colored eyes.

“Having a good day?” greeted the handsome stranger.

“Yes,” she’d answered, stepping back.

“What about the rest of your life?”

A little presumptuous, don’t you think?  “It’ll all fall into place,” she coolly responded.

“Do you mind if I stand with you?”  Before she could reply, he said, “I think I’ll shoot a few.”

“Shoot a few waves on your board?”

He smiled.  “Sure, and where do you think my board is?”

She glanced at a brown leather satchel over his shoulder.  “Folded up in that little bag,” she laughed.

The extremely good-looking fellow pulled out a camera.

“Photographer?”

“Professional,” he revealed.  “Let me take your picture.”

“You don’t want to photograph an old lady.”  she paused.  “I’m thirty-eight.”

“That’s perfect.  I’m twenty-five.”

What planet was he from?  She had the time of my life.  Posing.  Camera snapping.  Posing.  His fingertips brushed back her hair.  His hand lingered on her shoulder as he pulled the neck of the sweater down ever so slightly.  Snap again went the camera.

Laughing and joking, they walked down the steps of the pier to the waves lapping at the shore.  He bent down and removed her shoes.  She leaned against the post.  Foam from the churning water covered her feet.  He snapped the camera.  The lens clicked.  His hand lay against her cheek, turning her head.  Without warning, his lips pressed against hers.  He pulled her close to him, and she felt inflamed with the length of his body against her.

She pulled away.  Breathless.  Weakened, she mumbled something about having to get back to class.  He followed her up the pier, taking her hand in his.  “Your phone number?”

She resisted the temptation.  “No,” she muttered.

“You’re not going to walk out of my life just like that, are you?”

“Yes, just like that,” she said feebly.  “I’m only allowed ten minutes of lunacy in my life and I just used it up.”

He followed me to her car.  “What about the photos?” he pestered.  “Don’t you want to see them?”  He was good.  He probed for a weakness.

“No,” she replied.  “Nothing like this ever happens to me.  I don’t want to ruin it.”  It wasn’t a lie.  Besides she didn’t photograph well.  When clerks asked to see her driver’s license for identification purposes, they chuckled.  The ones refraining from snickering stuck fingers in their mouths and bit hard to induce pain.

Mom’s voice echoing, “Nothing’s ever as good the second time,” now grew louder in the back of her head, and persuaded her to leave before she changed her mind.

“You’re gorgeous,” she told the beautiful dark stranger, “but we’ll never be able repeat this amazing experience.”

She climbed into my car, drove off, and never had one second of regret.  (Well, maybe one.)

But that was it.  The extent of my romantic encounters.  Not nearly enough to fill romance novels.  I fed off of that one memory for three years.  Then it was back to reality — raising four children as a single parent.