The Night of the Missed Opportunity

If radiance came in a bottle and that bottle happened to spill onto the street and become a living person, that person would be the woman standing across the street. She was mesmerizing, she was beautiful and she was on line at the breakfast cart. The shiny metal booth that smells like bacon and coffee always had a long line because the smell of bacon is one of nature’s intoxicants. Everything is better with bacon: eggs, bread or an old shoe. I didn’t see her, at first, as I rushed passed the cart. I had no time to wait in a line so I raced to lamb-over-rice wagon. It too is a cruel thing of metal, smoke and seasoned meat that plays havoc with your olfactory sense until you are no longer thinking clearly. You set out for a salad and you end up blowing your cholesterol out of the water. The little man with the rubber gloves and the hair net finished piling the stringy meat over the seasoned rice in the Styrofoam container. He slathered the whole thing in white sauce, not the red hot sauce that burned though my gut like a welder with a torch, but that creamy, rich, gooey, thick, white sauce like a possessed street artist. This was all good things in a little foam box. I took my treat-in-a-box and sat on the ledge of a nearby office building where many people eat before returning to their cubicles. I dug in with a ferocity matched only by those predatory ancestors of ours who chased down their food and clubbed it with a stick. Only instead of a stick, I had a little plastic fork. As I brought the fully loaded fork to my mouth I looked up and it was then that I saw her.

Her hair flowed like rivers of golden sunshine. Her skin was as pale as milk. I was sure she smelled like strawberries and rain. Her body had those girl curves that worked best in sundresses and big hats. I had found the woman who would take my name, bear my children and rub my feet at night. As I shoveled piles of spicy meat and rice into my mouth like a train engineer would shovel coal into the furnace of a mighty locomotive, I imagined us lying on a blanket in a field somewhere far from the grime of the city. I was lying in her lap as she read Shakespeare with her classy British accent and fed me grapes.

She eased to the front of the line with the grace of a ballerina. I imagined her soft, sweet voice ordering her eggs and bacon. I bet she liked extra bacon. Gnawing on lamb grizzle then spitting it out, I watched as she handed over her money as if she were a painter adding the final brush strokes to her masterpiece. She took her bag while I continued to shovel, raising my blood pressure like the steam in the boiler of the train.

To my absolute delight, my future wife was crossing the street with her little bag and cup of tea. Yes, it had to be tea, for such a refined lady had to be a classy tea drinker. She was captivating, she was breathtaking and, as I coughed on a large piece of tomato, she was suddenly looking my way. I realized then that I may have a chance with this beautiful piece of walking art having my babies. Without a second to spare, I forced the rest of the plate into my mouth. A burst of flavor hit about the same time as that internal alarm went off signaling that my stomach’s reach had exceeded its grasp. Still I chewed and swallowed several times. I wasn’t going to let fate pass me by on account of a plate of sloppy food. I swallowed. I burped. I felt faint. I ate that whole thing.

She’s not just glancing, she’s actually staring…at me. Yes, she’s looking straight at me. What should I do? What should I say? Should I straighten my tie? No, too obvious. My mind revved like the engine of a Ferrari. I stood but I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I tried putting my fists on my hips like Superman - too pretentious. I folded them across my chest like Captain Kirk - too arrogant. I tried putting one foot up on the ledge Captain Morgan style and raising one brow as high as I could - too “Ahoy there, observe my genitals”. Instead, I stood there, hands in pockets, hips slightly cocked, one knee a little bent, like the guy who models underwear in all the catalogs. I was ready.

I had my opening line all ready to go but I can’t remember it now. She closed the distance until we were engaging that age-old ritual dance of give and take, where words are almost meaningless and it all comes down to subtle shifts of expression. Ah, cat and mouse.

My vision of strawberry summertime raindrops was upon me. She stopped in front of me, paused and lit a cigarette. My pulse raced, my lips pursed and with the thickest Brooklyn accent I’d ever heard she said “Ay yo, buddy, you got some white crap all over your mouth. If you’re gonna take it on the face you might wanna carry a Handi Wipe.” She laughed and slapped her knee, took a deep drag of the cigarette and continued on her way.

It was several minutes before I could move. I stood there in my lonely silence, sans napkin, damning myself for my love of white sauce and wishing I opted for the apple at the fruit guy on the opposite corner.