Miranda said, “Damn, I love you. I mean, yeah, maybe I am falling in love and everything, but I love how you think. And how you see things and can explain them.” Grinning, she changed her tone and said, “Mr. Jacob Savage, if you would like to give me your contact information, I shall consider keeping it on the chance that I should have the opportunity to need to have you call upon me at some later date.”

  I said, “I would be happy to share it with you.” I gave her my number, and she entered it into her phone. She punched a few more characters and my phone indicated that I had received a text message. It said, “Thanks, Toots, Miranda.”

  I smiled and said, “So, I can call you? Or just text?”

  Miranda said, “You can do whatever you want except share it. Or send me dirty pictures.”

  I said, “Miranda, I’d never do that.”

  She grinned and said, “You will. OK, maybe you won’t. But I probably will.”

  I said, “Really?”

  She said, “If you promise to be really careful with them. If I start feeling like I did last night. But it’s too risky, right? If somebody got our phones someday? That’s how people get in trouble.”

  I said, “Miranda if you ever send me a picture of yourself, and I don’t mean a... intimate one, but any picture at all, I’ll set my phone up to send it to a secure cloud location with a protected password. No, better yet. Don’t ever send me a photo on my phone...”

  She frowned and said, “Never?”

  I said, “Let me finish. Do you know how to set up a secure folder on a cloud service?”

  She said, “I think so. Oh! So, I put any photos I want to share with you there, you know, like selfies we take on dates, or whatever,” and she winked at me and continued, “And I share the cloud folder with you...”

  I said, “And you control it and can add or delete whatever you want to at any time. And delete everything when you want to.”

  She said, “It doesn’t keep you from making a copy.”

  I said, “There’s no way to do it and be truly secure about it.”

  She said, “No, I mean, you could totally take a copy. In case you wanted to have it blown it up and hang a poster in your bedroom or something,” and she winked at me again. Then, “That would be a surprise, wouldn’t it? But... on the other hand...”

  I said, “Tell you what. If you send me a photo I might want to do that with, I’ll ask permission first.”

  Miranda said, “It doesn’t cost that much. I have some of my action modeling shots on big canvases in my apartment. It’s just girls playing beach volleyball. With the sunglasses, you can hardly tell it’s me. I have some of my teammates, too.”

  I said, “Well, there you go. Send me whatever kinds of photos you want me to see, but just be sure to wear sunglasses.”

  She laughed and said, “And that solves everything! See, you are a genius!”

  Then, suddenly in a hurry, she said, “Oh no! What time is it? We’ve been here for two hours! I have an early morning practice. I have to go.”

  She jumped up, put her stuff in her bag and quickly bent over me and kissed me on the lips.

  She grinned and said, “I’m not really late yet. I just thought it would be fun to kiss you and run away. I do have a meeting, though. I’ll call you later. And, I think I will look into a cloud storage folder. Oh, and do give my number to a therapist if you think it’s a good idea. Bye, Sweetie, see you soon,” and she rushed away.

  I watched through the window as Miranda hopped into a sporty little car and backed out of her parking space.

  Her name wasn’t really Miranda.

  Chapter 4 Blue Shoes and Jungle Girls

  I spent the rest of the morning writing. I was getting a late start, but it was never about productivity. I didn’t have to keep to a deadline. I had to tell stories. Today’s story was a new one about a jungle savage. A wild girl in a land before time. A girl with a pet panther, watching and stalking the strangely handsome castaway that had washed up on her beach.

  I had an appointment today, too. It wasn’t for a few hours yet. I would talk to Alan about Miranda when I saw him at his office today. I’d tell him that her name was Miranda Savage. Then I’d tell him that her real name was Blanche White. He would ask me if I was interested in her and if she was someone I’d be interested in boinking. He wouldn’t say “boinking.” He’d say something less euphemistic–more raw. He was pretty blunt and wanted me to be. And wanted me to be more open about sexuality. He’s not the one who had taught me what I had said to Miranda about sexiness. Those were my own thoughts on the matter. But yeah, I’d tell Alan about Miranda. Alan would tell me to go for it. One thing we worked on was that decisions were like walking through a door. But doors weren’t one-way passages. Go through a door and if you don’t like where it goes, go back. And try another door. You could have as many tries as you liked. There could be consequences, but decisions were often reversible. If things didn’t work out with Miranda, I’d have had the experience, I would have learned something from it, and I would have a story to tell. The girlfriend I had told Miranda about wasn’t in my life now. It hadn’t ended badly. I had gained from it. It didn’t last forever. She was happy, I supposed. I was happy. And now that Miranda had popped into my life, I was very happy. Alan and I would have things to talk about today. That was probably one reason I had no genuine respect for what I thought Nathan did. Alan helped me be more genuine; Nathan helped people be more “properly imaged.”

  I had things to write about today. And my jungle girl would have things to learn about a companion who wasn’t a panther. Of course, the one who would have the most to learn, aside from me, was my strangely handsome castaway.

  Before I left the coffee shop, about 20 minutes before, as I was just thinking about packing up, a woman came in. There was something striking about her. She could have been somewhere between 32 and 56, for all I could tell. She wasn’t like Miranda. Miranda was very tall and Scandinavian-looking. This woman was short and had a Mediterranean look to her. Maybe Italian. She wasn’t really short except in comparison to Miranda. Her hair was pulled back. Her dress was a white, blue, and pink floral print.

  I could only see her back as she stood about ten feet away, waiting for her order. When she arrived, she met my eyes for an instant, and we smiled politely. But she hadn’t turned around since. There was something that made me want to talk to her. To say something, no matter how inconsequential. I took an opportunity to go to the restroom before heading out. I thought that if she were there on the way back, maybe I’d say something. She’d probably be gone. Why did I care?

  But she wasn’t gone.

  As I approached, on the way back to my seat, I said, “I’m sorry...”

  She didn’t look at me at first because it didn’t register that I was talking to her. But when I stopped a few feet away, facing her, she saw me as more than someone passing by to their seat.

  I said, “I shouldn’t say this out loud, but that’s a really nice outfit with those blue shoes. The shoes really look good with that dress.”

  Yeah, it was her shoes. They were flat little suede leather things, kind of like moccasins but much prettier. And I didn’t stare, but I was surprised at how nice her breasts were and how much cleavage the dress showed from the front. I really hadn’t expected that. I expected the front to be a modest scooped neck. It was modest, modest enough, but the untanned flesh at the sides of her breasts was paler than her face and made her all that much more striking.

  The woman grinned. She was pleased. She said, “Why, thank you! That’s nice of you to say so!”

  I smiled and walked past her to my table. She didn’t turn to look at me. When her coffee was ready, she picked it up and headed away from me toward the door. She didn’t look back. Why would she? And when she was gone, all I had was a character in a story and a meaningless interaction. Well, not entirely meaningless–it did make her feel good as she headed off to work. If she remembered me some other day, she wouldn’t talk to me. I wouldn’t talk to her... unless she was wearing blue leather shoes.

  I didn’t get to sleep easily that night. I didn’t hear from Miranda. I wondered if she’s let me call her Buzi? Or Buzzy.

  Anyway, no, I didn’t fall asleep quickly. What was she doing? Was she thinking about me? Like she had last night? Was she serious about that? What she’d told me she’d done? Maybe I should send her my address. Just in case she wanted it. She hadn’t really done what she’d told me, right? Not really. She was teasing me. Well, she certainly had been teasing me, but did she really do that? Of course, she hadn’t said I couldn’t do it. I mean, I couldn’t do it over and over, but I... needed to take a shower before bed!

  Actually, that helped. A lot. When I got out of the shower, I was much more relaxed and fell asleep without much trouble. I woke up a few times and tried to coax myself into an erotic dream, but it didn’t work.

  I dreamed about something stupid. I think it was about having a bunch of family over for a barbecue and standing around roasting corn on the cob while everyone else visited. I think they were talking about someone moving to Oklahoma or something like that. There were no jungle girls involved, but there was a panther that I kept as a pet for some reason. It kept barking and wanting me to give it one of the hot dogs. When I did, it gave me a disdainful look and wanted one without ketchup. I tried but got it wrong again. And no matter how many times I tried, I always got ketchup on it and had to make a new one. There was no erotic symbolism to it–I just couldn’t make a hot dog that my barking pet panther would accept. Thankfully, I woke up just before four AM.

  I was at the coffee shop at 4:45 AM. They opened at 4:30. I was counting on Miranda showing up. I had no idea what time. Yesterday it had been before six. Maybe she wouldn’t come at all. Maybe now that I had her number, she wanted me to call her. I couldn’t text her this early. I couldn’t text her, expecting her to meet me every morning, anyway. Yeah, I’d see her when she got here, if she did, and if not, I’d send her a friendly text at a reasonable hour. Maybe during the time I expected that she’d be at practice.

  She wouldn’t let me call her Buzzy. I thought it was cute, but she knew it meant “my contempt.” Maybe I could find a way to reframe it so that “my contempt” was a good thing. Not contempt for her, but for something else. Something that we could use Buzzy as a code word for, a reminder of something else. Maybe just her contempt for her name Blanche. Her contempt for what she thought of as a blank life. Maybe I’d try it.

  There was a terrible storm, and the jungle girl and the castaway ended up having to take shelter in the same little cave. They were soaking wet and had to get out of their clothes and get dry quickly.

  Miranda walked in at 5:58 AM.

  Seeing me in my usual spot, she smiled and went to order. I had already told the girl at the register that Miranda’s drinks and food would be on me. The workers all knew me and knew who I was talking about when I described Miranda. She wasn’t easy to miss. Not many six-foot-tall pro volleyball players came in almost every day. And certainly not at six in the morning to sit with me.

  Yeah, they had noticed. Miranda didn’t usually sit. When she did, the last two days in a row, they paid attention. It wasn’t always the same crew every morning, but today was the same as yesterday. The workers went out of their way to try to know everyone’s names. The girl admitted that they didn’t know Miranda’s. Because she never stayed or talked to them more than absolutely necessary. When they asked for her name, for her coffee, she told them to just put “White.” Until yesterday when she had talked to Haley. Haley remembered her now, for sure. The fact that Miranda had paid for my coffee yesterday was memorable. The fact that I paid for Miranda’s now was memorable too.

  Miranda came and sat down while her coffee was being made and said, “You didn’t have to do that. Thank you.”

  I said, “Did you sleep well?”

  She grinned and said, “Well, better than the night before. You?”

  I said, “Well, it was mixed. Why do you think you slept better? Oh, I talked to my therapist about you.”

  She smiled and said, “Already? Do we need couples counseling?”

  I said, “Possibly. But you know what I meant.”

  She said, “Yeah. He sent me a message and said that he’d give some thought to who he would have contact me. Thank you.”

  I didn’t say anything for a second, and Miranda said, “Oh, why did I sleep better? Honestly? I think it was because things are more settled. Because I’m not afraid.”

  I frowned and said, “Afraid?”

  She said, “Yeah. I’m not afraid that I’ll never see you again. I’m not afraid that you’ll never kiss me or don’t like me or that I weirded you out too much. In fact, I had a very lovely time by myself in the hot tub last night after my roommates went to bed. Very lovely, in fact. What about you?”

  I said, “I had a very just marginally OK shower before I went to bed that helped me relax just enough to fall asleep without too much trouble, but I wouldn’t describe it as lovely. And I had weird, totally not lovely dreams. You have a hot tub? And roommates?”

  She said, “Yeah. Two other... wait, my coffee is ready. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Miranda got up and thanked the barista for the coffee. She was more engaging than usual. The barista noticed that too.

  When she sat down again, she said, “Yeah, I have two roommates. Two other players. They are looking forward to meeting you. I’m pretty sure they are going to like you. One of them might not. She’s kind of angry a lot. It’s just her personality. If it’s a problem, we won’t spend any time there. Or maybe we will, and we’ll be really loud and just bug the hell out of her. Wow!”

  I said, “Wow, what?”

  She said, “Wow, I’ve changed. I like it. Yeah, we’ll just do what we want.”

  I interrupted and said, “As long as we’re polite about it.” and Miranda added, “Of course.”

  She continued, “Anyway, yeah, that’s a good idea. All the roommate etiquette stuff. Cool. But I like being more... me. Like I take up more space. I take up a lot of space.”

  I said, “Up and down. Not side to side.”

  She laughed and said, “I guess so. You could cram a lot of me in a closet as long as I’m standing up. How about you?”

  I said, “I don’t have a hot tub.”

  She said, “Roommates, Dummy! Oh, yes, I, we, have a hot tub. Our apartment has a big balcony, and we need to soak a lot. It’s a small tub, but it can fit four easily enough. So?”

  I smiled and said innocently, “It sounds nice.”

  She huffed and said, “Come on, you know what I mean.”

  I said, “No, I don’t have roommates. I have an apartment on the third floor in a big complex. It has a nice view of the woods, but the balcony certainly won’t fit a hot tub. And the tub in my bathroom is nothing to brag about either.”

  She said, “You can come over with me sometime. I mean, if you want to.”

  I knew what she meant. I felt that way too. Like I wanted to assume that everything was settled and our relationship was a month down the road, and we had gotten past feeling like we needed to not assume too much. But we weren’t there yet.

  Miranda was suddenly having an awkward moment. I could see it on her face.

  She said very slowly, “I should kiss you.” She didn’t move to actually do it.

  I said, “OK.”

  Standing up, she stepped back a pace and waited. I guess she wanted me to stand up too.

  She said, “Leave our stuff here,” and she took my hand and led me toward the exit.

  The coffee shop had two doors. One near the merchandise and the counter. This was generally considered the entrance. The other door was directly across the room from the counter and led to a patio and outdoor seating area. That was the exit. The table we were at was along the wall with the exit. That’s where she took me. To the exit. To the door to the patio. I liked patios. Patios were nice. I knew I was stalling. There was no need to be talking about patios. But it was all I could think about. And for some reason, my focus on patios became a weird substitute word for boobs. Miranda’s boobs. Miranda had really lovely patios, and she was taking me outside, and I’d be on the patio with her–or somewhere else where she was taking me that wasn’t her patios, but maybe her apartment, and her apartment was suddenly code for her vagina, and now I couldn’t think straight at all. Come on, Jake, get your head back where it belongs. Oh, and where’s that, my judgmental little friend? Her apartment?

  Hormones are stupid. No matter how “mature” I acted, they were always there, just waiting to make me stupid. I knew that they weren’t actually what made me stupid, thinking about Miranda’s lovely patios and getting my head in her apartment–and by head, I really meant lips–but no, it was my conflict between my rational brain and my hormones that made me stupid. Not the hormones themselves. They were just trying to help. My jungle girl didn’t have any conflict with her hormones–the “civilized” castaway was the one with the problem.

  Pulling me quickly toward the exit, Miranda took me to the patio. Just on the other side of the door, she threw her arms around me my neck and kissed me. She kissed me hard. And my hands immediately went to her waist, and I kissed her back. It was the best kiss I’d ever had. When I had kissed her yesterday, it was a little coffee shop kiss. This was a full-on, concert stadium kiss! (Caveman footnote: Jungle girl horny at loud rock concert. Want zugzug. Kiss hard. Lose loincloth easy).

  We were right in front of the glass door and big windows across from the counter. Turning me so that my back was toward a corner of the building where we had been sitting inside, she pushed me to a spot without a window. There was a parking lot, but it was fairly empty. It gave us a little more privacy. The reason for pushing me to a private spot wasn’t what I had expected at all, though. Miranda kept kissing me, and I responded in kind, but suddenly her right hand let go of my neck and shoved itself between us and found my crotch through my jeans. And groping my jeans, she found the start of my hard-on.

 

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