Pamela

Right around the time mom first got sick, I spotted Pamela during a smoke break from the pizza shop. It was summer, and I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. My previous, managerial, duties had devolved into a delivery role.

She seemed a bit breathless, having run a ways before arriving on my stoop, adjacent to the Catalina Lounge. I remember some vague small talk, and I could not take my eyes off her neck. Her face was perfect, and so was her hair, and teeth, and she had such beautiful eyes. The image of her slender neck, to this day, gives me strange, wonderful vibrations.

She excused herself and popped into the lounge. A while later, a messenger arrived. One of the fellas from the lounge came over and told me, that she had asked, whether I was "spoken for." Well, I about melted away into the warm night, all the way back to treasured high school crushes and promises, about to be fulfilled.

Was I "spoken for." I didn't even need to know anything else about this lady. The few women with such command of themselves, and our common language, rate highly enough to be considered trophies.

When she broke up with me, it was pretty simple. She allowed me to go away. One phone call that goes unreturned, is enough for me! When she invited me over a few weeks later, she showed me her modeling books.

She had series after series of very professional portfolios, and each one was more alluring than the last. "Rag Doll," a song by Aerosmith, came on the radio. As she gave me the very first modeling book to look at, I asked her, "so, what is your favorite Aerosmith song?" While she answered, I was looking at photo number two, an image of her in a black one-piece, lounging poolside.

"Back in The Saddle." I nodded my assent, and turned the page. As I did, I realized what I was looking at. Pictures of a woman that was completely finished with me. Frozen in time in the full glory of her young womanhood, forever frozen in time and place, never again to thaw, not even with spring's embrace.