Thursday, October 22, 2015

Was It Her?

I had only a couple more encounters with Debbie.  About a week after the events chronicled in my last post she was back at my house in the evening.  Before we made it to the bedroom Debbie suggested we go for a drive.  We took my van and I drove where she directed me.  I was soon in a part of town I didn't know. After a few minutes we turned right down a residential street.  The homes were nice but not overly grand. 

We went a few blocks and Debbie told me to slow down.  Then she had me pull over.  There was on-street parking in this part of town and I pulled in between a couple of sedans.
"OK.  So, what are we doing?" I said.
"See that house on the left?" She pointed at a house about a half block up the street.  It was just after dusk.  I could see the house.  The porch light was on.
"The brick split level, white trim, with garage on this side?"
"Yes," Debbie said.
"OK. So...?"
"That's where I live."
"Oh.  It looks nice.  Are we going in or something?"
"No."
Debbie got up and walked, stooped over so her head wouldn't bump the roof of the van, between the front seats and sat in the short row immediately behind me.
"Would you come back here, please..."
I got out of the driver's seat and went back to the bench where she was.
Then Debbie slid herself off the seat and sat on the floor of the van.  She took off the shorts she was wearing and then slipped off her panties.

We screwed on the floor of the van parked a half a block from her house.  It was dirty and quick.
That night was the last I saw Debbie.  Maybe...
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About thirty years later I was walking through a bookstore when an end cap display caught my eye. I didn't know why I stopped to look at the books until I realized that the author's name-- a distinctive, uncommon last name-- had triggered my stop.  It was Debbie's name on the cover of a cookbook.  I picked up a copy and wondered if it was the same person I'd known decades earlier.  The short bio on the back flap of the dust jacket didn't rule it out.  In fact it said that she was from the right state but lived in a different city than where we met.  The small picture of her didn't look a lot like the Debbie I remembered.  But I couldn't be sure it wasn't her.

The display signage said she would be in the store for a book signing that weekend.  I didn't have any desire to talk to her but I was curious if it was the same person.

I went back that weekend and saw that they had her set up at a table for several hours with a stack of books to sign.  There was no long line but there was a steady flow of people coming up to meet her and have a cookbook signed.  The author seemed to be the same height as the Debbie I knew but about 40 pounds heavier.  Her thick dark red hair was now cut short and blondish.  She wore wire-framed glasses. She smiled warmly at everyone who came up to the table.  I heard her speak... it could be her... I couldn't be sure.
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The new classes started at the broadcasting school the week after the events in the van.  Between the two new sections there were about 50-60 students.  Of those fewer than two dozen were women.  Of that group I would guess about 10 or so were my age or younger.  I found four attractive.  But the one that caught my eye was Marsha.

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