What Mommy Doesn't Know

How We Met

He was just a man and I was just a woman. We had both walked into the bar that one night, late July, with the idea of a drink in mind.

What a pity I wasted mine when I bumped into him because of the jostling crowd.

I would never forget the moment when he turned around to look at me. Those eyes - they were something that belonged somewhere beautiful, like stars in the sky or diamonds on a crown. Those marvelous cornflower blue eyes. . .

     How easily they could manipulate a naive young girl such as myself.

I was the type of woman to dub this occurrence as fate, he the type of man to call it chance. We both had very different views, and occupations. I was a fresh teacher and he a seasoned Wall Street employee. Different sides of the spectrum. But I suppose there is the saying, "Opposites attract"?

Never again will I say those words.

Despite the fact that my martini was slowly soaking into the lapels of his Armani suit, he did not speak to me with anger. Instead he introduced himself as James and offered to refill my glass. A gentlemanly gesture.

If my mother had been there she would have urged me to turn tail and run. Gentlemen, in her opinion, were nothing but assholes hidden beneath a warm falsetto. And that was why on her fourth marriage she wedded a cop, the previous three being lawyers. Her reasoning was that at least he didn't hide his behavior behind a gauzy wristwatch or Italian leather shoes. I would say she was a smart woman but I am a terrible liar.

James was everything that any woman could ever want; successful, tall, personable, fit, charismatic, handsome, selfless. The list goes on. I remember all that happened on the first night we had met. From the less-than-welcoming introduction to the sweet departure.

As I said earlier, he was selfless. Not an uncommon trait. But it was his display of this aspect of his personality that ultimately captured my heart.

James had bought me drinks five times throughout the night. I had been more than tipsy. My colleagues had long since taken their leave of the bar, seeing as I was having such a splendid time with an incredibly enchanting man. It was around three a.m. when we - or rather I - stumbled out of the bar.

Thankfully my dress had remained in place, for even if it had slid down my waist too far I was too sloshed to have noticed such a thing. I don't bask in the idea of getting blackout drunk - it's embarrassing. But James did not make me feel that way. He made me feel my company was enjoyable, even as I cajoled the lyrics of Semisonic's "Closing time" in the middle of the empty street, contrary to the fact that the bar had yet to rid its customers.

I remember him guiding me back to my tiny-tiny apartment. My directions weren't very clear but he was smart. The memory is foggy, though still accessible. I remember him sweeping me in his arms after I tripped on the first stair leading to my one-bedroom abode. Prince Charming, I had thought. And I remember him picking the lock on my apartment door because somewhere between leaving the bar and walking home I had lost my purse.

But I would not forget how he laid me gently in my bed like a father would his drowsy daughter. I, of course, ruined all of his kind gestures by throwing myself at him like a two-bit whore.

His denial of touching me at the time wounded my drunken conscious. James had left my apartment, his Italian loafers squeaking on my freshly-polished floor on the way out.

I vividly recall the morning. My pride hurt as much as my head. I was not beautiful, but not once have I ever been denied by a man when I initiated intimacy.

It was during breakfast, while I munched on my daily Special K cereal, that the phone rang. Who could it be? I had wondered. Usually, if I went out with friends the night before, I would not receive a call until late afternoon. At the time it was 9:30 a.m.

It was James. Oh, I had never been happier! And disgusted - I felt very low. As an attempt to push aside my lack of self-esteem at the time I had asked him how he came across my telephone number. He gently told me that I had given it to him, more than once, last night at the bar. Could I have been any more hammered to not remember such a thing? I definitely deserved the wretched pounding that resided in the walls of my skull that morning.

That feeling of self-loathing did not last. He had told me that after he left my apartment he went hunting for my pocketbook.

My pocketbook! This man, this wonderful, beautiful, selfless man had spent his time searching for my belongings because of my small-headedness of losing the damned thing in the first place. I was struck with awe.

James wanted to see me again. He said I had never finished the song - as he had never heard it before, amazingly - and that he wanted to hear the end sometime.

He made it impossible for me to forget how we first met.

I wonder: would things have been different if he was a little more selfish?