One Brush of a Hand

For Sunday Scribblings - Story
For Writer's Island - Beguile

Story.  According to the Merriam Webster Dictionary, a story is an account of incidents or events, a statement regarding the facts pertinent to a situation in question, a widely circulated rumor, or lie.

As a writer, I think of a story as a group of words put together to either entertain, educate, or inform.  Members of the writer’s group I belong to are currently writing stories about their life, which will eventually culminate in a completed memoir.  I enjoy writing true life stories.  Stories will give my grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and so on, more information about their ancestors than I have about mine.

Although I am enjoying our group’s foray into non-fiction, my preference is fiction.  I love nothing more than sitting down in front of my computer and letting the words flow through me to my fingers.  It is as if someone is dictating to me, and I am merely the narrator.  I can’t seem to stick to an outline.  When I am writing a fictional story, it is as if I am the reader and can’t wait to see what happens next.

I often write stories from prompts.  I sometimes ask friends for a word, phrase or scenario to use for a story, or visit Sunday Scribblings or Writer’s Island.  I also get story ideas from listening to people talk.  The story below, posted for Writer’s Island, was conceived from listening to a co-worker tell a story about attending an Alumni dinner—a late 50’s man seated at a table with recent graduates, all female.  To this day, he doesn’t know what a wonderful gift he gave me.  To find out, read on…

                                                                  

                                                        ***                                                                

The room was loud, filled with pre-marathon voices discussing recent wins, losses, and finish times, excited about the following day when they would run the San Francisco Marathon.  This was Myles Richardson’s second visit to the City by the Bay, yet only his first time to run the marathon.  He had been invited by Stone Thornton, a former classmate from Stanford, and San Jose native. 

Stone wouldn’t make it to the marathon this year, or any other year for that matter.  Stone had died tragically while in Texas on vacation.  A Mercedes drove off the Central Expressway interchange, which is the highest lane making up the High Five in Dallas.  Unfortunately, Stone had been running alongside the freeway at the exact spot where the luxury car made first contact with earth.  The car drove him into that hard-packed Texas clay, like a nail into an oak board.  Poor Stone didn’t live long enough to realize his dream of winning the San Francisco Marathon.  Stone and Myles planned to run the marathon together this year, now it was up to Myles to run in Stone’s place.

Myles went to San Francisco alone.  His wife, Minnie, wouldn’t be attending the race.  She was out of town on business.  Finding himself with nothing better to do, Myles decided to attend an Alumni Dinner for Stanford students running the marathon.  Looking around, he felt a little out of place.  He was seated at a round table filled with young people, all female.

When it was time for introductions, each attendee stood and announced their name and the year they graduated.  The girl to Myles’ left was Emma Rae Watson, class of 2002.  She was a petite blonde who spoke with a very pleasing southern drawl, the kind that can make a simple hello seem like an invitation to spend the night.  The girl to his right was Mercedes Espinoza, class of 2001.  She was also petite, her dark beauty the midnight version of Emma Rae’s sunshine.  Of Spanish decent, Mercedes’ voice was heavily accented, but it was the way she looked at him with those brown eyes that made him wish he could tuck her under his arm and keep her.  He immediately dismissed such an impossible notion.  Not likely either would go for him.  Myles graduated from Stanford in 1973, and even though he worked hard to keep his slim runner’s body, his hair grew grayer with each passing year.  He was still a handsome man, but happily married.   

Even with the age difference surrounding him, Myles found plenty to talk about with the all girl table.  Either they were very good at pretending, or they really did enjoy his storytelling.  All the girls listened intently, especially Emma Rae and Mercedes.  Those two girls hung on every word he spoke.  It was as if Myles were giving them the formula for everlasting life.  Several glasses of wine later, each girl took possession of an arm.  Fighting with his now inflated ego, Myles extricated himself from entwined arms and retired to his room, alone.  He meant to honor his marriage vows.

Dawn rose over a city shrouded in fog.  Myles found his way through the nebulous morning to Justin Herman Plaza, across from the Ferry Building at Market and Stuart Streets.  He waited at the staging area for his call to the starting line, by the waterfront on the Embarcadero at Mission Street.  He stretched and hummed his yoga mantra, reaching out for a mindset that would get him through the arduous race.  It was still ten minutes until race time when his concentration was interrupted by two familiar voices and squeals of delight from Emma Rae and Mercedes.

Although Myles really did try to stay away from the girls, their pace matched his.  As they passed Pier 39 and Fisherman’s Wharf, he was flanked by the two beautiful runners with their buff bodies and skimpy running shorts.  Admonishing himself to concentrate on the course, he kept his eyes forward, listening to the bark of the sea lions while breathing in the heavy salt air.

The runners continued through Fort Mason and up McDowell Drive, along the Marina and its plethora of private yachts and multi-million dollar homes.  They entered the Presidio, passing by Crissy Field.  As if a magician waved a magic wand, the fog lifted at the top of Crissy Field Avenue.  The view of Golden Gate Bridge threatened to take his breath away.  He couldn’t believe he was finally running this race, preparing to cross that magnificent structure. 

Those wonderful little endorphins, often referred to as a runner’s high, kicked in as he took his first step onto the orange vermillion bridge.  Unfortunately, Myles’ high ended too soon.  Emma Rae moved into his line of vision, her beguiling derriere impossible to ignore.  Myles tripped, probably over his tongue, falling in what seemed to him as slow motion, skidding along the roadway, stopping inches from the railing built to protect the pedestrian lanes from passing motorists.  Fearing something was broken, or at the very least strained, he lay there believing the race was over. 

Before he could move, Emma Rae and Mercedes each grabbed an arm, pulling him to his feet, urging him to continue.  Amazed at his lack of injury, Myles trotted onward, vowing not to be side-tracked again.

The runners entered Marin County, looped around Vista Point and began the return leg across the Golden Gate Bridge.  This time Myles made it across without incident, but then the girls were a few paces behind and he couldn’t see them.  Unbeknownst to Myles, the girls were busy admiring their view of Myles well-toned physic.

Once they crossed back to the San Francisco side, the route turned towards Sea Cliff, through the Richmond District, and into Golden Gate Park.  They passed by Spreckels Lake, Stow Lake, and Sharon Meadows, home to the free rock concerts of the 60’s.  They raced through Alvord Lake Tunnel, through famed Haight Ashbury, past the Mission District, Potrero District, and into Mission Bay.  Now, the final stretch loomed before them. 

As Myles ran along the Embarcadero toward the race’s end at Folsom, Emma Rae and Mercedes passed by on either side.  Both picked up their pace.  Unfortunately for Myles, he found himself once again fixated on Emma Rae’s posterior.  As if in a trance, he reached out toward her, just one touch and he could forget her.  As his arm straightened and his hand went in for the feel, Myles lost his balance.  He landed on his stomach, sliding straight ahead, his arm still outstretched, stopping mere inches from the finish line.  This time there were no helping hands to drag him to his feet.  It was up to him to cross that line alone.  Six runners passed before he could get up and take that one last step across the line, three hours and fifty-seven minutes after the race began.  Dismayed by his poor finishing time, Myles looked around for his ego builders, but they were no where to be found.

He didn’t see the girls again until he arrived at the airport for the long flight home.  Walking down the concourse, his heart skipped a beat when he saw Emma Rae and Mercedes approaching.  They stopped to say goodbye.  After their brief conversation, Myles reached down to pick up his carry-on bag.  That was when his hand inadvertently brushed Emma Rae’s.  It was a touch filled with electrical current.  Their eyes met, and then darted away.  Myles was intrigued by the attraction they had for each other, yet he turned on his heal and walked the other way.  He was a married man.

Myles and Minnie had one of those relationships where they could express personal thoughts or feelings, such as lusting after Emma Rae, without fear of reprisal.  Their first night together, Myles bared his soul to his wife.  All was forgiven and forgotten…until two weeks later.

Myles picked up the mail at the post office, laid it on the counter provided for customers' use, and thumbed through the magazines, advertisements, and a bill or two.  His hand froze when he saw the pink envelope, with a bouquet of roses imprinted along the bottom edge.  He remembered the bowl of pink roses placed in the center of the table at the Alumni dinner.  Nerves fluttered in his stomach.  The return address was missing; however, the penmanship spoke of a female hand.  He held the envelope to his nose, inhaling the sweet scent of roses.  His first reaction was excitement, feeling certain this letter was from Emma Rae, followed by guilt for being excited.  Myles ripped open the envelope and pulled out a note on matching paper.  It merely asked the question, “Miss me?”

Crumpling the envelope and shredding the note, Myles threw the letter in the trash can, beneath several catalogues and flyers he had no interest in taking home.  He hurried out the door, bumped into poor old Doc Carter, lost his balance, and tumbled down five concrete steps.  Lying flat on his back on the sidewalk, Minnie reached down to help him up.  Emma Rae still had the power to bowl him over.

                                                           ***

Almost a year had passed since the San Francisco Marathon, and it was time to send in his registration form.  He had trained hard over the past year, and he was ready.  This time he wouldn’t be distracted by Emma Rae.  He would ignore her as he had all those pink envelopes and the anonymous phone calls to his office throughout the past year.  Each letter seemed more cryptic that the previous one, all with suggestive phrases which became more graphic as the months passed.  When she called, she didn’t speak.  All he could hear was soft breathing.  Even though he categorized her as a stalker, Myles was still intrigued by the sensual southern girl named Emma Rae.

Myles walked home for lunch, planning to print off the SF Marathon registration form, fill it out, and get it in the mail that afternoon.  The phone was ringing when he walked in the door.  He picked up the phone expecting to hear Minnie’s voice.

“Mr. Richardson?”

“Yes,” Myles confirmed.

“I’m calling about the San Francisco Marathon.  I have a registration form for Stanford Alumni, which requires no entry fee.  Would you like me to send you one?”

Myles was silent for a moment, analyzing the Southern accented voice, “What did you say your name was?”

“I’m sorry.  I forgot to introduce myself.  This is Emma Rae Watson.  Would you like one of the registration forms?”

Myles started to accuse her of stalking him, yet she didn’t sound like a weirdo.  She didn’t even act like she remembered him.  He decided to ask her if she had been calling and writing letters, when he was interrupted by the doorbell.  Instead of accusing her, he told Emma Rae he would like to receive a registration form and waited to see if she asked for his address.  If she asked for his address then he was wrong about her.  If she didn’t, then he would know she was the stalker.  Emma Rae didn’t ask.

                                                          ***

It was the morning of the San Francisco Marathon.  Myles didn't attend the Alumni dinner this year.  He avoided all areas where he might run into Emma Rae, until this morning.  Miles paced back and forth across the staging area; Emma Rae was with Mercedes, talking to a group of men, a mere three yards away.  He knew she was crazy.  Still, he couldn’t avoid watching her.  She turned to meet his gaze, smiling timidly.  His heart skipped a beat.  If he didn’t know better, he would say she didn’t even remember him.  Emma Rae must be an excellent actress, he thought.

At the starting line, Myles made certain he was far away from Emma Rae.  He kept his concentration on the race, never once catching a glimpse of the woman he now knew was his stalker.  He moved to the front of the pack, setting a strong pace as he crossed the Golden Gate Bridge.  The course took him through Golden Gate Park.  He passed the landmarks he remembered from last year.  His stride remained strong. 

With the finish line looming closer, he picked up the pace, trying to catch up to the runners ahead.  As the race ended, Myles knew he wouldn’t be the winner this year either.  He would have to try again next year.  As he crossed the finish line, he was distracted by a woman.  He tripped, falling into the arms of a lovely brunette with familiar brown eyes.

“Minnie,” he puffed.  “You came.  I thought you were in Miami.”

“I was.  I finished a day early, so changed my flight to watch your race,” Minnie said, reaching into the pocket of the red jacket she wore.  In her hand was a pink envelope, which she handed to Myles.

Myles felt a moment of panic.  “I can explain,” he said apologetically.

“No, I can explain,” Minnie chuckled.

Inside the pink envelope was a note written in the same feminine style as all the others.  It said, “Miss me?  I missed you.  Lesson learned?”

“You sent the notes?”

“It was me.”

Pretending anger when all he really felt was relief, Myles grabbed his wife, hauling her against him for a passion-filled kiss.  “Let’s go back to the hotel,” he said against her lips.

As the bellman threw the bags in the back of the airport shuttle, Myles helped his wife into the window seat.  Before he could sit down next to her, his cell phone rang.  He didn’t recognize the number displayed.  He answered anyway.

“Hello.  Hello?”  He said, recognizing the soft breathing on the other end of the line.  Myles raised his eyes to see a woman standing with her back to the street, a cell phone to her ear.  He would have recognized that derriere anywhere.