This story is really a revision of one of my answers on the Long Ridge Writers Group's Writing Aptitude Test that I wrote years ago. I tightened it up to enter it in a dating story contest, and thought I might as well share it here too.
When I think about that evening, well over a year and a half ago, one idea permeates the memory: how very lucky I was to have happened upon the wonderful woman whom I now cherish so dearly. What an unlikely set of circumstances took place that evening, leading up to our introduction.
My story begins on the bustling street called Elgin, in the heart of Ottawa, the capital of my country. Jody and Justin – two classmates of mine – and I were in an animated debate concerning what the evening's entertainment would be.
"It's Disco Survival Night at Zaphod Beeblebrox," exclaimed Jody, his flushed complexion mirroring his short fiery hair.
"You've got to be kidding me," retorted Justin, unconsciously towering over Jody in a vain attempt to intimidate our small companion.
Jody carried on, nonplussed, his comical impersonation of John Travolta in Stayin' Alive leading the way. "What's wrong with disco?"
Despite the protests that followed, Jody continued to lead us towards the Byward Market, nestled in the heart of which is Zaphod Beeblebrox. Truth be told, neither Justin nor I could come up with any remotely interesting suggestions, and as such, our objections were half-hearted at best.
Soon the modest exterior of the pub was before us. Little more than an expanded corridor, its unobtrusive atmosphere made it a favourite of ours. However, a decidedly different scene greeted us this night. Far from unassuming, the walls and ceiling were plastered with every sort of paraphernalia from a time we had seen through the eyes of children. With quick dispatch, Justin brought a foaming pitcher of Rickard's Red and three glasses to a table near the front of the establishment.
In the hours that followed, we were taken back to the generation of our parents, a liquor-induced haze supporting the myth. The stories were outlandish, the laughter a little louder than warranted. Suddenly, Top 40 sounds filled our ears, snapping us out of our reverie like the crack of a gun. It was 11:00 p.m. For Jody, that meant only one thing:
"Come on," he cried, "let's dance!"
"I should be going," responded Justin, "I'm not sure how well I can control my affections in the face of so much temptation."
Jody didn't press the point, for fear of rubbing salt in the wounds opened by Justin's long-distance relationship with his girlfriend. I, however, had no such defense. Bidding Justin a good night, Jody and I headed for the dance floor.
The gyrating beast of fellow fun-seekers quickly swallowed us. Alcohol having stripped away our inhibitions, we drifted with the spirit of the moment. I lost myself completely in the music, dancing without any regard for, what was most certainly, my comical appearance.
Awareness of my surroundings eventually resulted from what must have been the third jostling of my person in as many minutes. The culprit was not my enthusiastic companion, as I had assumed, but rather, an attractive, dark-haired woman. The very essence of my being seemed to rise up from my body at that moment, taking roost in the rafters of the pub. Joy, the potency of which I’d never known, filled me then, watching my body and this lovely woman’s progress from dancing hand-in-hand to passionately embracing.
How the remainder of the evening was spent has been the subject of happy reminiscing, as well as many a good laugh, by the two of us. I can say with certainty that I had eyes for her alone from that moment on. When the pub began to close for the evening, a few hours after midnight, it was as if I was waking from a dream… a wonderful dream. I wrote down her phone number and, bidding her a good night, blissfully stumbled into the snowy street that February morning.
After many hours of internal debate, I called Paula the following day. At that moment, the seeds of what would grow into a powerful relationship were planted. I love her for so many reasons, but her tolerance comes to mind as I consider the grace with which she accepted my opening inquiry in that first phone conversation so long ago.
"Hello. Is Carla there?"
If you have something to say, feel free to send it to me or write it in my guestbook. You can also have a look at what other people wrote in my guestbook.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.
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