He was older, considered most eligible by those who measure such things, neat to the point of obsession, a non-smoker, and quite stiff by my standards. His car was worth more than my home; his house exceeded anything I wanted. He socialized with people whose names you would recognize.

I enjoyed our phone conversations but preferred to keep our relationship on the professional side of platonic, so had turned down his many invitations to get together. One evening, my daughter convinced me to relax that barrier and I agreed to his plea to just sit by the fire he had burning. After I hung up the phone, she followed to help me get ready and was confused when I changed into ragged jeans, a stained sweatshirt, and tennis shoes. She was disgusted when I washed off my make-up and pulled my hair into a ponytail because the last thing I wanted him to think was that I had put any effort into impressing him.

He came to the door in jeans, a tee shirt, and no shoes, took one look at me and busted out laughing. I might have fallen in love right then. If not that moment, it could have been a few hours later, when he offered to carry my tampon and cigarettes in his pockets so we wouldn’t have to keep up with my purse inside the nightclub we decided to hit, on a whim, in our grubby clothes, with no make-up. And if not then, it had to be when he danced me around the floor, smiling as though everyone came there looking the way we did.

I smiled until my cheeks hurt that night, which is always a good sign.

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I warned him. Most people don’t allow me anywhere near their pool tables. I enjoyed trying, but never developed any skill at the game. Fortunately, he was taking me to a pool hall so I didn’t have to worry about damaging his equipment.

Dressed in shorts and sandals, I waited at the front door for him to arrive. I waved, locked the door as he came up the walk, and strolled across the porch to meet him. My sandal caught on the first step and I bounced down the next three on my butt. I lied, said I was okay. He helped me up and I managed to keep the frozen smile on my face until he had closed my car door and was on the way around to his side. I snuck a grimace while he fastened his seatbelt.

When the stars faded and I could see clearly again, I noticed his full named engraved on a gold plaque attached to his dash. Physical pain forgotten, I switched to feeling completely out of touch. Did other people monogram their dashboards? Rather than let the question drive me crazy, I asked. It wasn’t his idea; his father had given him the car as a present when he passed the bar. He wouldn’t have chosen the plaque, or the car for that matter. I was glad to hear that and warmed even more to him when I realized he was playing country music – my favorite, not his.

About four rolls of quarters into the day, we admitted he was no more successful at teaching me to shoot pool than the many who had tried before him. He thought I might be better at miniature golf. I choked back my laughter and said I was game. I sucked at miniature golf, but did manage to break a hundred at bowling.

Although I never acquired skill or interest in the activities he enjoyed most, we both loved to dance. We had great conversations and laughed a lot, mostly at my lack of coordination.