The tall, dark and handsome idiot came out of nowhere. I had a second or two to a good look at him before the accident occurred.
But seriously. He did. He was like a migraine. Nothing there one moment and then- poof! Random person in the way of my fortunately-not-speeding bike. Of course he got knocked down.
I want you to understand something, I generally don’t go around hitting people with my motorcycle. Well, not every time. that one time with Steven was totally understandable, I was having a tough week. So hitting the fellow who probably had only one brain cell in that head of his was a bit of a new experience for me.
I got off the bike, knelt beside him to feel his pulse. Luckily for me, he was alive. It wasn’t really a hit, more like a brushing.
“Hello sir?” “Can you hear me?”
The idiot just kept staring at me. Then he cracked a smile. And mumbled some nonsense.
“Sir? Can you speak out? I can’t hear you” more mumbling. I brought my head closer to hear what was been said. The scene was so melodramatic, I half expected rainfall and Indian people dancing on the streets. What? I have an active imagination!
“I said” a deep intake of breath “can I have your number?”
Of all the things in the world! I was so shocked it took me a minute to recognize the background noise threatening to split my eardrums as the melancholic wail of an ambulance siren. Someone must have called 911 and I know I didn’t do it. From the look of things, I don’t think he did either. Nice to know there are still some good Samaritans in this country.
“Seriously. I’d like to see you again. Preferably soon.” His voice was stronger. He was probably fine, no problem. I tore out a sheet of paper and scribbled my number on it. I have no idea why I did that- but boy, am I glad I did.
The paramedics came and the rest of the morning was lost in a whirl of questions and paperwork as he was taken to a hospital and policemen interrogated me to find out what happened. Of course I told them it was simple accident and since no major damage was done, I was let off with a stiff warning.
I had just gotten home and taken off my helmet. I was crossing the parlor on the way to the bathroom when my phone rang.
“Hi. I’m Ab.” (Pronounced “aibee” two syllables)
“Ab? I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name. I think you have a wrong nu-”
“No wait! You knocked me down this morning!”
“Oh. You. Ab- that’s a weird name”
“It’s short for Abraham. What do you say to lunch around… Say 7:45?”
“It’s a few minutes after six.”
“Good. You’ll have an hour to get ready.”
“Ookay. So if I decide to see you by 7:45, where do we meet? Or are you psychic as well as annoying?”
Laughter breezed out softly from the other side. I decided I liked the sound of it. I also liked the way he was decisive and even slightly manipulative. Showed he was smart.
I like smart people.
“I said, you should text me your address and I’d come pick you up”
“Alright.” The line went dead and I quickly texted him my address. Then fretting over the amazingly stupid thing I had just done, I stalked off in a black mood to find something halfway decent to wear to a date. You know, in for a penny, in for a pound.
At exactly 7:45pm I heard a knock on my front door. Now understand, it’s not like I was waiting for or anticipating his arrival. And if my eyes happened to turn in the general direction of the clock in my parlor it was not because I was checking time. I had a totally attractive wall clock. Fantastic work of art. You can’t blame me for appreciating art now can you?
I opened the door and there he was, Mr. Roadkill, in the same office clothes I last saw him in. But they were neat and clean, and he had obviously made an attempt at grooming himself after our encounter.
He sucked in a lungful of air.
“I’m glad you knocked me down this morning. Come with me?” He offered his arm.
Wow, a gentleman too? Well you can’t expect me to say no, can you? I mean it would be totally rude, considering.
So I took his arm and we left, making our way to his car where it was parked, surrounded by the soft velvety darkness of night.