Picture him lying on his back on a dusty road, naked from the waist up. I’m standing over him, in a short, tight black dress and black shoes with monstrously thin high heels. One of those stilettos is on his chest, pressing into his heart. A drop of blood seeps from his chest and rolls down to the heel of my shoe.
His head is turned toward you. His expression pleads
with you. “Make it stop. What did I do to deserve this?”
My front doorbell rang late in the afternoon. An uncommon occurrence when unexpected, as this was. I almost didn’t answer. No one drops by unannounced these days, especially on Saturday afternoon. I figured, probably some kid selling candy bars for the school trip or members of the Church of the Latter Day Saints hoping to save my vixen soul.
But I did go to the door, to find Liz, my dependable representative from the United States Postal Service, package in one hand, pen in the other.
“Hi, Georgia. Got a package you need to sign for,” she said.
“Wonder what it is,” I said as I signed.
Another unexpected first in my mature middle age: Telling a suitor that I don’t want to see him again.
I’m such a coward. I told Chet over the phone. (You last read about him in How Not to Impress a Woman.)
I had the best intentions to do it in person. Truly I did. I set off to meet him for brunch Sunday morning fully intending to tell him that he was wasting his time with me.