Like a good detective story or a forensic investigation, after it's over and done, it's fun to go back and try to find out where it went wrong. Was it the final kiss - the one where she nervously back pedaled to the door with a look on her face that seemed to say "I really have to get back to work, and I don't want to kiss," yet you insisted, grabbed her, and planted one on her lips?
Was that the point where the whole deal crashed and burned? Maybe, but a couple of seconds later, after walking into the building, she turned, faced you through a glass door, and gave one long, final, earnest stare. What did that mean? "Hey, the kiss was actually an okay thing to do?" Or was she thinking, "You're a nice guy - I should like nice guys, but I don't. Thanks for trying, you pathetic fool?"
Sadly, or perhaps mercifully, the dumpee has no idea why he got dumped. How can he know - there's so little to work with. Let's see... There was the initial spontaneous meeting at a beach, some emails, some texts, a couple of phone calls, a second beach walk, and then the fateful, last meeting. Who was that woman who seemed so terrific with her uplifting nature, the Piafesque waif wearing a gypsy-peasant dress, head framed by long, wavy chestnut hair that curled into ringlets just past her shoulders. On her feet were embroidered Chinese slippers. Her coat like her smile was open to the world. Her ears, protruding a bit like George Harrison's, furthered her cute/sexy appeal. She was articulate and witty, and she rolled so fluidly with your nonsequitur nature. When you said, "What would you think about meeting up again for another walk and chat?" her instant affirmation in her East Texas twangy-talk made you think, we got something here.
You met two days later on Thanksgiving. The walk and conversation rolled in and out as easily as the waves gently unfolded on the sun-drenched beach. You caught yourself staring at her as she talked, her glance lazily cast off into the sea and sky. When she turned to you, your head snapped forward again seriously, yet you quietly sipped in her essence through the corner of an eye, weighing the image, her being with blessed seascape moving past. Later, in retrospect, to add further confusion to the evolution, in the parking lot, you stood face to face, less than an arm's length apart, and without fuss, fell into each others arms, lips meeting for a sweet, delicious kiss.
In matters of dating and love, nothing is easy. Yesterday's kiss, is today's clever evasion.
She invited you to meet her at her work place, then go to lunch. She actually had two lines of work. One was as a ESL teacher the other was as a Rolfer. You remember someone's girlfriend who enjoyed a good Rolfing. You once watched boyfriend Rolf girlfriend. It had to do with him taking a piece of wood, somewhat in the shape and length of a baseball bat, though slightly skinnier, and, while girlfriend lay stretched out on a hard wood floor, boyfriend proceeded to push the object into her back, while she let out loud, deep grunts. According to the duo, they were grunts of pleasure and release. To you, they sounded like prisoners being worked over by their captors at Guantanamo Bay.
Before you started your journey, you asked her, "Will you be tutoring or Rolfing?" She said, Rolfing, and as they say in horror movies, you had a bad feeling about this one.
In the end, you met up with a woman who was not the woman you walked with on the beach. Funny how that happens, but you're not her, and whatever she was thinking, she never let you know, but she sure did show you. For nearly the entire time you sat with her in that bake shop, she had a cell phone pressed to an ear. Occasionally, she'd take the phone off the ear, and apologize, saying, "Sorry, I'm not usually like this", while you spooned away at a tasty piece of apple crumb caramel pie, she barely touched.
Where did Piaf go? You thought as you watched her pacing up and down the sidewalk engaged in another animated conversation with whom and what ever the hell it was she was engaging in. There was only one Piaf, the one and only Sparrow, but probably hundreds or thousands of birds like the one outside the window, plying their trades from sea to shining sea. You would never find out what made her tick, or what was the reason you'd never meet again, but there was the pie. Award Winning. Light, flaky crust, apples, streusel, buttery-sweet caramel - just perfect.
In the end, you'd arrive at the bake shop in hopes of finding love, but leave with the knowing you'd found the most delicious pie you'd ever tasted.
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