He was my own Dirty Dancing partner and sole one-night stand. OMG — it was him! My Jewish mom, clueless about our tryst, saw this dazzling summer server from our tribe as son-in-law material. Humiliatingly he ignored me, my mom and our pastrami. He was probably a player, out of my league.
Two years later, the novel Even Cowgirls Get the Blues arrived in my mailbox … from his address. He knew I was an aspiring writer. Yet this sexy paperback sans note was perplexing. At the cafeteria, I bumped right into Cabana Boy!
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Smoking a joint in Washington Square Park at sundown, he invited me to his dorm room. Second seduction? No, to show me that his box of important treasures had a photo of us from the hotel two years earlier.
I melted, feeling special to him, after all. He gave me a copy of his graduation picture. But I was dating someone else. He was too. Are you happy? I pictured a deathbed apology. I found his grown kids on Facebook, but no mate. Desperately curious why he was curious, I emailed him to fill in missing pieces of this ancient puzzle.
He answered: He was healthy. They had kids during her medical training. Upon her cancer diagnosis, they moved to her small hometown where her relatives helped raise their brood as he commuted East to work. I did everything wrong ignoring all but poetry in Manhattan, marrying another scribe later in life, forfeiting parenthood after infertility , but I had my spouse.
