Nate was upset with the world. He was upset with the world because the world was upset with him. That must be true because it—it being whoever was in charge of the world—had allowed his girlfriend to fall in love with a billionaire. Just because he—Nate—didn’t have much money didn’t mean he wasn’t lovable. And he had prospects. Just because his prospects never seemed to prosper when he tried to prosecute them wasn’t a good reason to leave him in the lurch.

       Lurch. Lurch rhymed with church. When Nate had strong feelings about something he wrote a limerick. Or even when he didn’t. He sat down and wrote a limerick now.

 My girlfriend left me in the lurch.

I’m waiting in front of the church.

   She said she’d obey,

   And then ran away,

And knocked me right off of my perch.

      It wasn’t a great limerick, but then Ruth, his ex, didn’t deserve a great limerick. He texted it to her. At least she wasn’t blocking his texts. Nate put a collar on his dog, Pots, and walked out the door of his small apartment, which was behind the owner’s house. He needed to get some fresh air.

     Pots was a small dog of mixed breed—very mixed. It was impossible to tell what the parts of the mixture were. However, he was lovable. Women loved him. Unlike himself, apparently. That’s how he had met Hortense, the woman who had left him for a billionaire. She had come up to Pots and leaned over to pet him. The rest was history. Hysterical history.

 A mixed-up young doggie named Pots

Had markings and smudges and spots.

   Although he was small,

   And not very tall,

The womenfolk loved him in lots.

      Nate turned onto the local main street of the Los Angeles suburb, which was the shopping area. There were shops all along the street. Women were shoppers, and so hordes of them walked past the shops every day. Perhaps Pots would help him again. He saw a good-looking woman walking toward him with red hair and dressed in tight jeans. What she wore above the waist was hidden by a package that she held in both hands. She was walking slowly, perhaps because the package was heavy. Nate recognized her. She had recently moved into a house not far from his apartment. He had not seen any evidence that she had a husband or a roommate.

     On a whim that was out of character for him, Nate reached down and unhooked Pots’ leash. Pots, ever cautious, himself, looked up at Nate, to make sure he was free, and then he raced over to the woman, wagging his tail, and started sniffing her legs. Nate walked rapidly toward them, ready to call Pots off if he annoyed her. She stopped walking and looked down at the little dog for several seconds, as if deciding whether he was friend or foe.

     Nate realized his mistake. She couldn’t bend down to pet him and hold on to her package at the same time. He walked rapidly up to her and said, “I’m sorry if he’s annoying you. He got away.” He then realized that this was an unbelievable story since he was holding the leash. Blushing, he reached down to hook Pots back up, preparing to slink off.

     The woman looked at Nate. She had interesting eyes, perhaps green. They mesmerized him in a way no woman’s eyes had, at least for the past week, and he quickly glanced away.

     She said, “Is this your dog?”

     She spoke slowly and her voice had a fairly low pitch.

     Nate said, “Yes,” as he attached Pots’ leash to his collar.

     “What breed is he? I have never seen a dog like this one before.

      Nate smiled and said, “He’s a rescue dog. The people at the shelter didn’t know what breed he is, but apparently, he’s mixed.” Apparently? Nate, you’re just proving what a goofball you are.

      “Mixed up. He is a mixture of several breeds.” She chuckled, and smiled at him.

     “Yes. But I love him. I’m sorry he bothered you.” Nate was about to move past her when she spoke again.

     “Wait. I have seen you before. You live in the apartment behind the house four houses from me.”

      Nate stopped and said, “That’s right.” He was surprised that a beautiful woman would know, or care, where he lived.

      “I saw you go into the apartment. Would you please carry my package to my house? I can hold the leash of your dog.”

      Was this a come-on? Nate had been trying to get up the nerve to ask her if she needed help with the package. He said sure and moved his hands under it to take it from her arms. It was surprisingly heavy, and he dropped Pots’ leash in the process. He was afraid Pots would run away, but he didn’t. The woman picked up the leash and started walking toward Pearl Street, where they both lived. Pots followed her, obediently, which gratified Nate.

      Nate followed them, adjusting his hold to make sure he could handle the weight. She must be strong. She was striding right along, and he had to walk fast to catch up to her. He didn’t want her to see him gasping for breath, so he slowed and tried to control his breathing.

     He said, “My name is Nate.”

     “How do you do, Nate? My name is Sandra.”

     “Nice to meet you, Sandra.” Then he said, in what he hoped was a light tone, “Your package is heavy. Did you buy an anvil?”

      She shook her head. “It is not an anvil. An anvil is too heavy to carry.”

     However, she didn’t say what was in the package. Better not to ask. Nate was too winded to say more, anyway. As they approached her house, which was closer than his apartment, Nate wondered again whether she lived alone in the three-bedroom model, but he decided it was impolite to interrogate her. It had been empty for months before she moved in. She walked up the driveway and then three steps up to a wooden porch. Ascending the steps with his load made Nate start puffing again.

      Sandra said, “I will place your dog’s leash on this hook. If he goes into the house he might urinate on the rug.”

      Pots was house-trained, but Nate decided not to dispute the point. Pots would be all right outside on the leash. After Sandra secured Pots, Nate expected her to produce a key from somewhere, although she wasn’t carrying a purse. She placed the palm of her hand against the stucco wall beside the door. The door lock gave an audible click and Sandra pushed it open. Was this something like an eyeball scanner?

       “Come inside, Nate,” she said. You can place the package on the table in the dining room.”

       Nate followed her into the house, which had a faint odor of something like disinfectant. Sandra closed the door and led him from what must be the living room into a dining room, which was furnished with a sturdy wooden table and chairs. He carefully laid the package on the tablecloth, glad to be rid of his burden.

      Sandra gave him a smile and said, “Thank you, Nate. Would you like some jasmine tea?” 

      Nate wasn’t a tea drinker, but he was in favor of anything that would allow him to be with Sandra longer, and give him a chance to get to know her. After he said yes, she told him to wait in the living room. It contained a roomy couch with a coffee table, er, tea table, in front of it. He sat on the couch and surveyed the room.

      There was a hardwood floor, and several stuffed chairs were strategically placed not far from the couch. A large bookcase at one end of the room was full of books, which looked new from where Nate sat. Prints of a number of famous paintings hung on the painted wall, which gave the effect of being in a doctor’s office. Or a house that was for sale.

      It was clear that Sandra must be a renter, not a buyer, and probably a temporary renter at that. Temporary relationships were the story of Nate’s life. He had an urge to walk out now and avoid this one, but before he could act, Sandra came into the room carrying a tray containing a teapot, cups and cookies. She set the tray on the coffee table and sat down beside Nate. 

      “I forgot to ask if you take anything with your tea such as cream or sugar.”

      “No; I drink it straight.” Nate accentuated “straight” and tried to make it into a joke. The macho tea drinker. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

      “Thank you.” Sandra expertly poured a cup of tea and placed it in front of Nate. “Help yourself to the cookies.”

       Nate did that. He wanted to ask a question, but not one that would make him appear to be too nosy. “I remember seeing a truck here when you moved in. Was that about three weeks ago?”

       “About two weeks ago. At the beginning of June. You have a good memory. What do you like to do, Nate?”

       This question caught Nate a bit off guard. He said the first thing that popped into his head. “I like to write limericks.”

       “A limerick is a five-line poem with a rhyme scheme AABBA.”

       At least, she had heard of limericks.
  

      “Would you write a limerick for me, Nate?”

      Why not? He had been known to write limericks on paper tablecloths at restaurants for friends he was dining with. “Tell me something interesting about yourself.”

      “I like to write limericks too.”

      That was completely off the wall. As far as Nate knew, he was the only person in the world who still wrote limericks. At least, he felt that was the case. She was just stringing him along. That was all right; he didn’t mind being strung. Still… He took a small spiral pad out of his pocket along with a pen he always carried.

      “May I call you Sandy? Sandra is too hard to rhyme with.”

       “Sandy is a nickname for Sandra. Yes, you may call me Sandy.”

       “Good. Let’s try this: ‘There was a young woman named Sandy.’” Nate thought for a minute, and then the whole thing verse came tumbling out.

“There was a young woman named Sandy.

At writing short poems she was handy.

   It took her some time

   To find a good rhyme.

What helped was a jigger of brandy.”

      Sandra smiled slightly and said, “Now I will write a limerick.” She thought for a few seconds, and then recited the following:

 “There was a young fellow named Nate,

Who took a nice girl on a date.

   He fed her some food;

   They ate and they wooed,

Till he was convinced they should mate.”

      Nate was impressed. In addition, the poem was a wee bit risqué. Did that bode well for their relationship, if any? “Hey, that’s not bad. Where did you learn to do that?”

      “I have always known how to write limericks."

      Nate doubted that, but she obviously had done this before. He glanced at his watch. “Ohmygod. I have to leave. It’s noon and I have to be at work at one.”

      “You work strange hours. I hoped you would stay longer.”

      “I work for a news service that feeds stories to newspapers, television, the internet, and the rest of the universe. News happens 24 hours a day.”

      “Can we see each other again? I would like that.”

      Nate considered for a few seconds. She was fun to talk to and without the package he could see that even while she was wearing a sweatshirt her body had all the right features in all the right places.

      “Uh, sure.”

      “How about tomorrow?”

      “Give me your phone number and I’ll get back to you.”

      “I do not have a phone. Just knock on my door. I am almost always here.”