My relationship with Corrie started with an innocent complement: "I like your boots."
She was in line ahead of me, shuffling into a preschool performance of Mary Poppins. I only found out later that she was single. Like I said, it was innocent enough.
"Thanks. They're new."
They were black leather thigh-highs with tall heels -- the kind that can only be pulled off my fashionistas or porn stars. She was gorgeous enough to be either.
"One of these darlings yours?" she asked, motioning to the empty stage as we sat down four rows from the front.
"No, you?"
"A chimney sweep. He's three. Been practicing constantly. She makes me play Dick Van Dyke" She said this with a roll of her hazel eyes but also, I thought, with a tinge of something else. Pride in her son, probably. Or, I imagined, a little thrill at saying the words "dick" and "dyke" to a stranger.
"Cute."
"So you just watch preschool performances as a hobby then? You're super creepy."
"My niece is Winifred. Been practicing constantly. She makes me play the dog."
"Cute."
The boots which started things reach up her legs nearly to the hem of a floral-patterned skirt that slid gracefully off of her crossed knees revealing a little piece of smooth, golden skin on her thigh. It was more than enough to get my attention. I tried hard not to stare -- or at least to get caught staring. But after sneaking a peek once, she seemed to change the course of our conversation, shoehorning in the fact that her son's father was out of the picture -- in California becoming someone else's mistake.
The play turned out to be a disastrous failure -- not because of any kid's performance but because I failed to get Corrie's number. I had to step out to take a phone call in the second half and when I came back, the curtain had fallen and she was gone. I searched, was disappointed, and went home to let Madison Ivy soothe my disappointed loins.
I couldn't believe my luck about three weeks later when I spotted her at a coffee shop. Corrie, that is, not Madison Ivy. She was wearing the same boots but this time with a black, short-sleeved dress that hugged her figure tightly and revealed significantly more of those golden thighs. Her hair was in a shiny pony tail and she wore a leather choker that, along with the boots, hinted at a dominatrix motif.
I paid for her coffee and stood near the counter. When the barista told her it was paid for and she started to look around for her benefactor, I said, "I like your choker."
