A Splash of Trick, A Splash of Treat

"What would you do?" That was her Thursday before Halloween question o' the day.

"uhm…" Go speechless? That's one thing I'd do. She's given me a trick or treat surprise. I'd planned on working and buying coffee the same way I do every Friday. No trick, no treat, just day to day Rob. See, Rob's a creature of habit. We're a reluctant breed. We hide in our familiar bushes and quarries, cuz we hate the meadows of surprises and quandaries. I saw Bambi. I know what's out in the meadow.

"Mother? Mother?"

Surprise, Bambi!

Yeah, I'm not a big fan of surprises. The woman on the phone knows that. She thinks they're good for me. She's the type of person who'd splash me in a swimming pool then swim away. That's why she says, "My plane arrives early tomorrow, you should think of something."

Don't like surprises? Tough noogies. Welcome to the meadow.

"uhm…" I guess I'm having a visitor. It's not like I haven't tried my hardest to dissuade her. My boss shifted my day off so that I'm no longer off on Friday, I've reminded her that I'm a late night person, while I know that she isn't.

She leaps my hurdles. She extends her trip. She says she doesn't care. She doesn't take the clue: I'm a scared Robby Rabbit while the cute and cuddly kitten circles my cage--purring.

Why is she licking her lips? Gulp.

So here's the thing. If you haven't noticed: Rob's a flirt. I always have been. It's just low level, friendly stuff, that leads to nothing. It's my way of admiring the opposite sex, and letting them know they're admired. I'm telling you, if there were a museum filled with women, I'd pay to see the exhibition.

They fascinate me. Naked, clothed, working, reading, playing and yeah, sometimes even bitching. They're a puzzle whose last piece still hasn't made itself known. So I'm locked down, staring at 999 pieces assembled in a pattern that confuses the crap out of me, and I'm always one piece from advancing, one piece from fleeing. Right now, one woman is hiding that piece. I'm caged. She's circling; so is her plane, Friday at 10:30 am.

My town doesn't have too many hotels, but she's got a room at one of the nicest. Friday morning, I'm sitting across the street from it, in a plaza, outside a coffee shop. I'm early. That's right, another sign of Armageddon. I'm awaiting the pale rider on a white steed. She'll be here from the airport soon.

My phone rings.

"I'm checked in, I'm in my room."

"Cool! You want me to meet you there or somewhere for coffee?"

"Coffee. Where will we meet?"

"There's a shop across the street--From the front of the hotel. We'll meet there. I'm already here."

"Ok."

I'm supposed to be working. I will. She's baiting the hook, and I'm playing hooky. I just thought it would be good to meet her since she's here. I figure we'll talk and do lunch, it's safe. No surprises, what could happen, right? Ok, stop giggling…

I'm waiting and looking. Some guy approaches, "Excuse me, can you give me some change?"

"No, I don't have any." In our credit card generation, that isn't a lie. What's more, I'm certainly not giving him a credit card to make up for it.

This is common. I'm downtown. The courthouse is only a few blocks off. Everybody who passes is either begging or selling. Me, I'm just waitin' on a girl.

One approaches me. She's selling magazines. I must have forgotten to switch off my "solicitors welcome" beacon. Still the girl is cute so I let her pitch. I'm a flirt. I'll listen.

"…how about Rolling Stone." This is her routine. She doesn't give me the heartbreak story about how selling mags keeps her off drugs, or sends her cousin to college. Just straight forward, "How about Rolling Stone." I like that.

"No thanks." Just not enough to buy what she's selling.

"What about Spin?"

"Uhm, no. I really can't--"

"Sci-Fi?" She won't take no. Even more interesting, her magazine choices seem catered to me. She moves Rolling Stone back to the front. AC/DC are locked in geriatric rigor. I'm wondering how anybody is going to move them. I'm wondering how this girl thinks she's moving me with her magazines.

She throws her last pitch. It's a killer, "Hi Rob."

It's the woman I'm waiting for, and I didn't even see her coming.

SPLASH!

Gulp. I am so screwed.

To be continued...