I imagine Mike, the tall, lean, handsome, bald, black plumber for the city. He unbuttons my shirt slowly. I stroke his arms symmetrically, pressing my thumbs firmly into his taut humped biceps, and breathe onto his neck without touching it.

When once my fantasies brought me shame, as if someone were watching me, now I fuss over them as I would a fine entrée served at a plush restaurant.

I take Mike’s tee-shirt off. I press my cheek to his chest, then the other cheek. I press my palms against his lean back. Etc.

I wake up in the morning after my night with Mike. The kids are still asleep. I tiptoe upstairs and set the water to boil for tea. After bundling the kids off to their respective schools, I drive to Lake Merced for my almost daily exercise.

There is Mike. It’s just Mike. The hero of my fantasy is no more than another ambulating homo sapien.

“Hello,” I say.

“Good morning, Vicki.”

“Long run today or a short one?”I ask.

“Short today, rest tomorrow, long on Wednesday.”

“Got it.”

I don’t get it. I don’t hope or even wish to keep track of his exercise schedule, except to maximize the chances of running into him again.

But, for what? For something that would end in a one-night stand, an affair that could deflate as fast as it inflated? Or worse, some futile attempt to find common ground between us when there isn’t any?

A week later, I am driving my daughter to the Lake, as she has the day off. I spot Mike.

“Darling,” I say to my daughter, “there’s someone I want you to meet,” I lead her over to the hunk. “Hi, Mike. I’d like you to meet my daughter.”

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

“She looks just like you,” he comments to me.

I say something oh-golly-gee-ish.

Later I comment to my daughter, “I think he’s cute. “

She looks straight at me. “I don’t think he’s interested.”

Of course, he’s not interested. Neither was Paul, Peter, Luis, Greg, Rob, Vijendra or Martin. I am a densely tangled mass of concerns and thoughts. I don’t blame them for saying sayonara.

So, what is it that I can hope for? I know that in the future I may and probably will have figured out the biggest chunks of my life – they are, how to be solvent, how to not dread my ex-husband, and how to love my children and extended family as fully as possible.

By Vicki Inglis

Labels: Vickie Inglis

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