“Sometimes the truth can be
The mirror’s tiny image showed a ruffled, Clairol-assisted, bleached-blonde, pixie haircut, in desperate need of a comb, hazel-brown eyes with green eye shadow (a little smudged…but who cared).
I smiled big…noting in my teeth. My…just a tiny bit crooked…nose showed the effect of hours of basking in the sun.
My slightly ‘bent’ nose was a result of me foolishly not wearing my catcher’s mask during warm-ups earlier this spring during a fast-pitch softball tournament that I was unfortunately unable to participate in…since I was sitting on an old, very hard, plastic chair in the ER of Minneapolis General Hospital.
Incidentally…broken noses really do produce an un-Godly amount of blood. Anyway…
I guess I looked okay. Good enough to be arrested at least.
Franny seemed to be speed walking as I slowly dragged along. I caught up with her at the corner…still unable to think of a way I could wriggle out of what I was certain to be a horrible disaster.
I had considered and then discarded my possible, upcoming promotion at work as an excuse. I was in line to be made assistant to the circulation manager at the Minneapolis Journal…the newspaper where Franny and I both worked.
She was one of the local advertising reps and I was slowly moving up in the circulation department. (No pun intended…)
However sad this sounds…I had to face the reality that most everyone at the paper had ‘liquid’ lunches and sometimes even ‘liquid’ afternoon breaks…so no one would bat an eye if I got nailed for underage drinking.
Most…including my boss, Mr. ‘party guy’ Ross Taylor…would probably consider it just a “rite of passage” into the wild world of adulthood.
As we waited for the light to turn green, I heard a roar of motorcycles coming up from behind.
I turned and noticed two guys on Harley-Davidsons who had also stopped at the red light.
Ever since I had seen the movie “The Wild One” with Marlon Brando, I had…for some odd reason…become a big fan of motorcycles. Don’t ask me why…I have no idea.
Even though they were both wearing aviator sunglasses, I could see they both looked pretty sweet! Oh, c’mon! Aren’t all guys on motorcycles sweet? You know…all that leather and… you know…stuff??
Being the friendly sort of person that I am, I sent a huge smile in their direction…you know…as in “Hey welcome to the corner of 34th Avenue and 51st Street.”
Don’t judge me! I am a very sociable person by nature. I smile at most people…and when I am out walking…I say hello to every dog I meet as well. As in…”Hi, dog!”
The biker closest to me pushed up his sunglasses and smiled back…may I say he had really incredibly vivid blue eyes? I will…he did.
His smile was just a tad inviting… kind of slow and lazy. Okay. It was slow, lazy and sexy.
He was wearing a white tee shirt that had seen better days and faded jeans. His scuffed, black, leather boots looked older than me. No matter…it was working.
He was really tan and his longish, blonde hair was sun-bleached almost white…just like I was trying to get mine to look.
He was, actually…if you must know…drop-dead, fucking magnificent.
He looked quickly over at his friend and then back at me. His friend had nodded what appeared to signal some sort of agreement…
“Want to go for a ride?” he asked me.
I think I stopped breating…no really…no intake of air was present for many seconds.