“It goes without saying, but I’m uhhm. I’m sorry,” I hesitated and cleared my throat, “If you got to pick, you know, if you could snap your fingers and change things, would you choose to be homeless?” I asked.

She glanced over her shoulder and chuckled, “I don’t get to pick.”

“Sure you do,” I responded.

She shook her head, “I don’t. But to answer your little fantasy, no I wouldn’t. I’d be married to some guy who rode a Harley, and cooked that bad-ass corn shit, what was it called? Elote?”

She hesitated and grinned. I sat in somewhat of a trance, wondering just what it was she meant by the statement, but afraid to ask for fear of getting an answer I didn’t want to hear.

She shifted her weight on the bed and began to pick at her fingernails as she spoke, “That’s a joke by the way. Well, kind of. If I got to pick, I’d want a guy who is big enough, tough enough, and mean enough to protect me from the monsters in this world; and believe me, there’s a lot of monsters. But the thought of having a man who is sensitive, kind, and has enough patience to touch me, caress me, and love me…now that’s what I’d want. Yeah, I want that.”

She hesitated and tilted her head toward me, “But if he was a pussy, it’d never work. The thought of being with a pussy just seems weird. So, I’d want a tough fucker with a soft side. Oh, and he’d have to be willing to at least act like he loved me. I need to know what it really feels like to be loved. Now it’s my turn. Are you single, and if so, why?”

As I thought of the simplicity of making Cade’s elote, I considered my response carefully. Her off-hand remark of being married actually aroused me. Not in a sexual sense, but in a sense of this lasting longer than one night. After struggling with my response for what seemed like an unusually long period of time, I began to babble.

“Yes, I am. I was married. I recently got divorced, and just haven’t felt a desire or need to try and move on.”

“Define recent,” she said.

“Oh, the divorce? Uhhm, two years in July,” I nodded.

“That’s recent?” she coughed.

I shrugged my shoulders, “As far as I’m concerned, yeah.”

“Age?” she asked.

“Me or her?”

“Seriously? I’m sorry, but I don’t give a fuck about your ex. I want to know about you,” she said as she shook her head.

“32,” I sighed.

“Fucking youngster,” she said flatly.

I nodded my head and smiled, “I like to think so.”

She turned and gazed out the window again. After a short pause, she spoke. “Can I ask?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Sure, ask me anything. What are you thinking?”

“Why? Why the divorce?”

I exhaled audibly and rolled my eyes.

“Money. She left me for more money,” I hesitated, narrowed my eyes, and gazed into my open closet.

After a moment of staring at my shirts, I continued, “I work on motorcycles at a shop down on south Broadway. It’s seasonal. I make a lot of money doing it, but she spent a lot, and well, it’s seasonal. So in the off-season, I just dick around with odd jobs and work on a few bikes here in the heated basement. Basically, in the winter, I don’t leave. I don’t know, I guess she just wanted more money than I could give her. She was pretty high maintenance.”

She turned to face me and shrugged her shoulders, “Fuck her, you deserve better.”

“You don’t even know her,” I responded, “How can you say that?”

“I don’t need to know her. Were you working on bikes when you met?” she asked.

I nodded my head and crossed my arms, “Yeah, kind of. I was going to college and working on bikes on the side. It was how I paid my tuition. I got a little of a late start in college, didn’t graduate until I was 26. But yeah, we met at college. I see where you’re headed, so yeah, she knew.”

Her eyes widened and she smiled, “You went to college?”

I lifted my chin slightly, “Sure did. I’ve got a piece of paper that says I’m a mechanical engineer. It’s where I met Cade. Go figure, huh? I always wanted to design my own bikes. Like I said, I’m determined. I received my degree and went to work at an independent bike shop. One day I’ll have my own shop, but not here. Somewhere warm.”

She raised her hands to chest level and turned her palms upward, “What I was going to say was if she knew you were working on bikes, and she knew your dream was to work on bikes, and you kept working on bikes afterward, she had no right to bitch about it. You deserve better. It’s like a girl deciding to date a porn star, and later complaining that he fucks other girls. Duh, you married a porn star, you dumb bitch.”

“You’ve got a good point,” I agreed.

She gazed down at the comforter and sighed. As she turned to face me, she tilted her head slightly and brushed her hair behind her ears.

“You’re a great looking guy, you’re obviously smart, and you’re determined. You can have anyone you want. Forget her.”

“Thanks. I just, I don’t know. I think I had some false understanding that marriage lasted forever. I’m a hopeless romantic. Some people place little or no value in marriage. I took the shit far too serious, I guess. Till death do us part is a fucking joke. Till you piss me off or till I want more than you can give me is more like it,” I paused and ran my hands through my hair.

I scratched my scalp with my fingertips as I shook my head. I knew I was a much better person than what my feelings depicted, but the feelings of worthlessness remained regardless. Chloe’s leaving me made me feel more than rejected, it caused me to feel inadequate and incapable.

I leaned onto my pillow and gazed out the window into the street, “She made me feel inadequate and ugly. In fact, when she left, she told me to cut my hair and maybe I’d have better luck with the next one. You know, it made me wonder if there were a few more reasons for her leaving than she had actually explained.”

“Don’t cut your hair,” she snapped.

I rolled my eyes and laughed, “I already did. This is the short version.”

She shook her head slowly as she arched her back. It was apparent she wasn’t wearing a bra. The tee shirt hung from her perky breasts which were outlined by the glow from the streetlights. As she twisted her upper body to face me, the small shadows cast across the front of her chest caught my attention. I turned my head slightly, glanced toward her obviously erect nipples one more time, and nervously shifted my gaze to the window.

“Fucking bitch. Sorry, but she’s an idiot. Like I said, you deserve better, and you can have anyone you want. Get over her and move on. It’s been two years, right?”

I nodded my head, “Yeah. Two.”

I glanced in her direction. Looking at her now, thinking of her being the homeless girl from the bench downstairs was almost impossible. She was beautiful, seemed somewhat intelligent, and was entertaining to talk to. Not at all what I would have expected a homeless person to be, but my preconceived notions were based on opinion, not fact.

“Okay. Moving on, let’s see…” I paused and turned my body to face her.

As her eyes met mine, I continued, “I want to get to know you. Spend some time with you. You said I can have anyone I want? I want to get to know you. Think about that, okay.”

Her mouth curled into a smile. She blinked her eyes a few times. Although it was difficult to tell for certain, it appeared her eyes began to fill with tears. Quietly, she sat and stared. Eventually, she turned away from me and gazed out the window.

“My friend Christina’s mom said something once, and it stuck with me. Everything happens for a reason. I kind of believe that. Do you really want to know me?” she asked.

“Yes, I do,” I responded.

She turned her head slightly. Her hair hung over her face, revealing her chin, cheek, and nose. She cleared her throat, swallowed, and continued, “Because I’m some complicated homeless girl and you feel sorry for me, or you’re intrigued by my homelessness?”