A Competition of Intriguing Proportions

© Christine Mastroianni, all rights reserved

It is a little after six and on the sidewalk of Newbury Street, a man of impeccable style is striding amongst various other men, most of whom display the same tantalising and stylish of presentations. Every one of them is due somewhere as time has now exceeded the decadent summer shopping hours, and is now headed deliciously towards the decadent summer dining hours. In a perfect world, they all have dates. Good ones. Special ones. First ones.

Our man happens to be en route to an evening of the latter sort. Consulting the onyx face of his Bulova, he increases his pace ever so slightly. He knows where he has to be, but he knows not, for certain, what awaits him. As he follows the familiar street, his mind trails back to his Macbook where he last saw her: a perfect set of 2x3 images portraying a vivacious eruption of auburn draped sweetness. He had coordinated online matches before, and was well aware of the possibility that she was not as she had virtually appeared. But all of his attempts had been relatively successful thus far, so he was comfortable in trusting his judgement on this one. Besides, she had tenably described herself as a maniacal bird watcher and jazz aficionado who enjoyed running and playing chess. Even if their on-line interludes hadn't been as mesmerising as they were, he would have been headed towards such an appointment sooner or later. Not meeting a potential woman like this would have been a travesty for which he would never have forgiven himself.

"Meet me at the tortoise" she had stated, teasingly refusing to elaborate. He was intrigued by her playfulness and was up for the challenge. It wasn't even a challenge really as he was confidently aware of the destination to which she was referring. 

He veers across the street and makes a quick but necessary detour into Winston's Flowers before continuing on his way. As he pauses at the intersection, he hears a spirited voice behind him shriek "Red punch buggy no punch back!" He smiles as he spots the recognisable contours of the vintage Volkswagen Beetle turning onto Newbury Street and remembers playing that game when he was a child. Except...

"That's not how you say it," a young girl's voice challenges. "It's punch buggy red. Where are you from anyway?"

"I'm from Canada," the Beetle spotter announces proudly.

"I'm pretty sure they say it my way in Canada too," the girl states. "That means I can still punch you." 

Safely averting the brewing confrontation, our man arrives at Copley Square, posies in hand, heart on sleeve. He spies a vacant bench in the intended location and takes a seat, allowing himself to relax just a little, unwittingly realising his oscillating nervousness. He has a good feeling about this one. He gazes at the pair of bronze sculptures nearby, a competing tortoise and hare, which he knows was created by Nancy Schön to commemorate the centenary of the Boston Marathon. This is where he is supposed to be at this very moment.

He evaluates each of the passersby intently, trying to determine which one might be his date. This is the rush that he most enjoys about meeting someone for the first time. Will she look the way he expects? The way she promised she would? Would they click in person as they had in kilobytes?

He is pulled back into the moment by a sultry voice to his right. "I see you figured out where you are supposed to be," it confidently swirls towards him. He rises to his feet and finds himself standing before a tall redhead in a little blue dress and a big, bright smile.

"But of course," he declares, offering the bouquet of flowers and returning her genuine smile. "You'll have to toss out something more intricate than that if you wish to perplex me."

She accepts the flowers with one hand and his outstretched arm with the other. "I think I'm up for the challenge," she grins, and strolls with him towards their eventual dinner reservations.