Chapter 6

I arrived at the entrance a moment after him. He smiled when he finally saw me. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said shyly. Geez.

“Nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you.” Really nice.

Opening the door, he asked what I wanted to drink. “You sit down, and I’ll bring it over to you.”

He then proceeded to walk me to the table and pull out the chair. This time I almost did fall. Who does that anymore? “Thanks,” I said, stunned.

(Very sweet, Mr. Strawberry.)

When he returned with my requested green tea, his capa-frappa-whatever and luscious lemon cake*, I knew it was showtime. But I was seriously faklempt. “This June gloom…sure is gloomy, right…” I observed. Ugh, that was pathetic. Like my tongue was wrapped around a tree. Not quite the opening line I’d hoped for. But he laughed. He thought I was being funny. Yeah, hilarious.

We sipped and commented on cake. Somewhere around the third bite, our chatting began to flow. Perhaps it was the politics. I mentioned how I wanted even more women on the Supreme Court. He agreed. Another point for Strawberry.

“Did you know,” he said with concern, “that of 193 countries with National Parliaments, the U.S. ranks 76th in the percentage of women in office?” I just shook my head.

This was all going pretty well, when he abruptly excused himself. I saw him huddling over by the straws, on his cell. Odd. When he returned, he apologized and told me he had to leave right away. No explanation.

Great.

I walked out two minutes later, disappointed. I didn’t even finish the cake. 

As I reached my car, I saw Strawberry running toward me. The guy ran funny. His pants jingled. But it didn’t matter. I was standing in my flippers thinking we all have to overlook some things. And I may have to overlook his running style.

“I’m really sorry,” he said, breathless. “My phone vibrated. It was my ex-wife. There’s still some issues. Would you have dinner with me next week, even with…issues?”

Issues. Know them well. I figured he was cute enough and nice enough to find out what they are. So, it was a yes for dinner…

to be continued... 

*Check out luscious lemon cake recipes on Recipes page

Chapter 5

I was shuffling through my Ipod, attempting to find a matching melody for meeting Mr. Strawberry. Sweet, but not too mushy. Not that my eyes weren’t concentrated on the road, but my car sort of drove itself the two miles to Starbucks. By the time I settled on “Tightrope,” my car was in the parking lot.

Look, I was nervous. I just hadn’t felt this kind of chemistry in awhile. And I hate first dates. Really, I plain hate dating. Not that this was a date. I dared not call it that for fear of slipping into another psyche spin-cycle. And, honestly, I’m rather used to being single. I’ve grown accustomed to my face and accepted its flaws.

Alrighty then. Deep breath. No big deal. Don’t have to marry him. You’re only having a caffeine stimulant. Maybe a little cake.

Now, get out of the car. Do I absolutely have to? GET out of the car please. OUTTA THE CAR!

Bolting out of my vehicle and refusing another neurotic thought, I held my head high and focused on my destination. Flip, flip, flip went the sound of my sandals. Only I heard their rhythmic flipping. I became so one with the flipping, that I didn’t see the crack in the sidewalk.

“Oops. Careful,” advised the homeless person sitting on the curb.

I’d tripped, but I didn’t fall. However, I did look around to see what might have caused the crack, and if Strawberry had also witnessed my lack of coordination.

He hadn’t.

Because “there he was just a-walkin’ down the street.” Oh my.

to be continued...

Chapter 4

What will we talk about? Will Strawberry be as adorable in Starbucks as he was on that 737? Or will it be icky, awkward and have the stench of silence? Uh, oh. I’d better prepare an excuse for an early getaway. He’s probably plotting the same damn thing.

    

I only knew a few things about him. Or maybe I only remembered a few. He was easy on the eyes. I already mentioned that. He’s a therapist slash life-coach. That could be weird. But means a high listening IQ, a trait I admire. He was taller than me, another trait I admire.

And if receiving a large arrangement of stargazer lilies the day after soothing his sweet strawberry soul is any indication of thoughtfulness and a little romance, well, there’s one more trait I admire.

Oh, my neurotic mind. It’s awfully busy.

What if he only likes action movies, and not only hates chick flicks, but actually calls them that? What if he wears tight bikini briefs and shaves his back? And worships golf? Do I dare date a redhead? Suddenly I remembered in Greek mythology that redheads became vampires after they died.

Oh, stop. Would you just stop?!! Just go meet the guy for coffee and talk about the weather. Have a cocktail afterwards, if you have to.

I laughed out loud at the blather of it all. Truth was, my gut told me I was going to like him. And it had been a while since my gut had spoken such sentiment. Honestly, it scared me. But, with a command to my brain to stop the pistachio processing, I hurriedly slipped on my jeans and my favorite crimson top.

One last check in the mirror, another deodorant roll for confidence, double Altoid toss, and I was out the door to meet Mr. Strawberry….

     to be continued…

Chapter 3

“Mr. Strawberry, hi!” “Do you mind if I call you Mr. Strawberry?” “Or would you prefer just Strawberry?”

OK.  Maybe just “hi” would be good. Perhaps with a little elevation in my voice to let him know I’m happy to see him. After all, I am. Aren’t I?

I sighed deeply. The question perplexed me. I wasn’t sure. I was standing in front of the mirror tweezing. With each pluck I practiced another version of how I might greet this man I’d met recently on a plane. 

He’d coveted the middle seat, and I the aisle. That in itself bonded us. But it was his fear of flying that had been our true nexus. And lucky me, having a lack of it, found a way to delve into my heart and comfort this poor, panicked, adorable ginger.

But now the time of reckoning had come. Reality.

I had fantasized about this meeting for nearly a month and God knows I love my fantasies. But in exactly 45 minutes I would be standing face to face with dear Mr. Strawberry. I was excited and totally freaked at the same time. Men were on my ‘to do’ list but ‘to do’ later. I was like a duck that wants to wade in the water but knows there’s safety and Apple TV on the shore. Maybe I should cancel.

 to be continued…

Chapter 2

My time had come. From a few rows ahead, a fully-flocked red-haired man, handsome in that ginger way, turned around and eyed me. I nervously smiled back. He pointed his finger at the middle seat next to me and mouthed, “Can I sit there?” I mouthed back, “You bet your life you can sit there. Settle in, Strawberry.” No, I’m kidding. I didn’t say that. I just nodded and successfully drooled all the way down to my leather boots. Suddenly I was smitten and didn’t care what size his bladder was.

As he moved in and his bent knees nearly reached his chest, Mr. Strawberry explained that he was afraid to fly and being surrounded on both sides by crying children was not going to ease his dread. I assured him, while we dined on stale nuts and flat soda, that I didn’t have a fear of flying, nor would I cry. And I’d be happy to help with his oxygen mask should there be a problem.

“Good,” he said with a flirty grin, “because on my last flight, coming home from the far-east, the plane was hit by lightning, the engine dropped, and we had to land in North Korea.”

Whoa.

After that showstopper, I decided not to console him any further by suggesting that statistics compiled by the Department of Transportation concluded that airline travel is 29 times safer than driving. It probably wouldn’t have made any difference. Though I may bring it up later. Because Mr. Strawberry and I are going to meet for coffee...

to be continued...

(or check out Frank's version http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NSJxiS9wQ20)

Chapter 1

Groups “B” & “C” stormed into the Southwest aircraft. It was survival of the pushiest.     I, on the other hand, was breathing easy having landed that choice aisle seat with ample bin space directly above. I wasn’t smug, but I admit that it felt rather sexy being in the “A” group. It was well worth the extra twenty bucks to get the “Early-Bird Check-In” they offer. I was on my way home from a great reunion weekend and I didn’t want it ruined by having to occupy the supreme galactic punishment…a middle seat.

One by one the “B” & “C” faces scoped out the seat situation and overhead opportunities. A few still hopeful. Others glum. Most simply resigned to being squishified for the next two hours.

At the time I placed my happy derriere down in seat 7D, the middle seat was vacant. Of course, it was vacant. Middle seats are losers. The last ones picked. As people passed by my row, you could sense their disdain at the empty center seat. I began to feel compassion, not only for the passengers, but also for the wallflower saddle beside me.

Competition for the most comfortable location swelled the cabin. I overheard a twenty-something whisper to her friend, “See that aisle seat up there. Push through and go spit on it.” Her friend turned back and gave her a dirty look. “Hey dude, I was only kidding.” I don’t think she was.

A row in front of me, opposite side, was a middle-seat marauder. You know the type. Nabbing an aisle seat, she was now at work hoarding the center one next to her. She plopped her XL purse on top of it and got real busy exuding territorial body language. Her plan to populate both seats was in vain, of course, because the flight was full. Soon the jig would be up, and she’d be space-challenged like the rest of us.

Actually, who could blame her? If you’re over five-foot-two and weigh more than a hundred pounds, you’re doomed for discomfort. Unless you’re flying first-class. But, on Southwest, everyone is first-class, aren't they?

The rear window and aisle seats quickly began to fill and I knew I was getting close to having a neighbor. Who would the fates place next to me? I hoped for George Clooney but he doesn’t usually fly Southwest. However, I’d be duly contented with someone who practices good personal hygiene and has a decent-sized bladder.

to be continued...

(BTW…according to a recent survey a majority of people would rather get stuck in traffic (56%), go on a blind date (56%) or go to the dentist (54%) and have a hole drilled in their head than sit in the middle seat of a full flight. Just sayin’…)