I stared awkwardly the first time I saw her smile. To simply call her beautiful misses just how extraordinarily lovely she was. In a sentence; She was a triumphant heroine from a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel come to life.
Venezuelan and proud she had pale skin, green eyes, and long black hair that held my gaze far too often. I'm not sure she ever felt she was sexy, and that made her a thousand times more alluring.
I had no business dating someone like her, the person that introduced us had vastly overestimated my capabilities and class. When our volunteer matchmaker asked if I'd like to see her again I was speechless. The group dinner was pleasant enough, but I was sure I'd admitted too much about my lack of education and my wilder times. Our first one on one date ended with an aborted hug (she tried, I dodged) after a pleasant but peculiar evening. I was smitten, but not hopeful.
I picked her up for date two in a pickup almost as old as she was, it was loud, unattractive, and my driving didn't help. Walking around the mall is my personal version of hell. I can't remember what movie we saw, or what kind of froyo I got – I do remember how pleasant she was and how gorgeous she looked.