I saw you on that little coffee shop on the corner of Trinity and Burnside. Or rather, you saw me. I was just minding my own business, going in for a single espresso like I always do, and you called out from the corner, "Hey, blue nail polish with that blouse ... WOW!"
I blushed, but you knew you had me. I sat down next to you - on that fancy couch they have that looks like the "Curious Sofa" from Edward Gorey - and we chatted for a long time. Then you took me for a drive up to Washington Park and we sat under the statue of Sacagawea, looking out over the city.
You put your arm around me, and even though I knew it wasn't going to be "like that", I was excited. Turns out we'd both lived in San Francisco at the same time but never met there. We swapped horror stories of the 38 Geary and the N Judah, and you talked about the time you'd slept at Baker Beach in January.
I asked you why you'd moved to Portland. You said, "Free wi-fi," but I knew there was more to it than that. You kept it to yourself, though ... you always were mysterious.
That was our only time together, but I've never forgotten. I still have the grass stains on my skirt to prove it. Glad you remembered ... I was afraid you'd forgotten me.
For the rest of the story - and to find out what that stain really was - read
fatfeistyfemme. 