I remember pulling up next to his car at the town’s only
stoplight. He was going to make a left, probably heading over to the branch he
was building for the bank where I worked. I’d met him a few times when the
company he owned expanded the printout storage room for our computer
department.
I just knew him as “the man with the Mercedes.” He knew me as “that blond girl in the basement.”
I just knew him as “the man with the Mercedes.” He knew me as “that blond girl in the basement.”
When I pulled next to him he smiled and waved, and I said to
myself, “too bad, he’s married.” Little did I know that between the time he’d
worked in our basement computer department, to that time at the light, he filed
for a divorce. When the new branch finally opened, both of us were at the
festivities. We got to talking there and, as they say, we connected. Tomorrow, forty-five
later, we’re still connected.
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