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.4
I was on her street, bright and early, when she left for work. It was not much of a surprise when we arrived at the university. Maybe she really was a librarian, I mused. She was too old to be a graduate student. I cruised past her parked car. A teacher! How had I missed that faculty sticker earlier?
I waited for a space within eyesight of her car and finally got it. I found the admissions office and a cute, little work-study chick gave me a big smile along with the university catalogue.
I found a shaded bench outside and sat down to find out just who this woman I had decided to seduce was. There she was all right. In the faculty section. The picture did her no justice at all. Strange, I thought, had I not been drawn to her in person and that photo had been on the front page of the paper, I would have never bothered to read the article. I read about her now though:
Martin, Miara. Born in Haverhill, Mass.
Graduated, Freetown High School
B.A., history, Barton College.
M.A., Political Science, Northeast University.
Dept: History. Course: Modern History.
The rest was a course description and schedule. No real information beyond her name, and birthplace and the fact that her last Wednesday class let out at 3:30. I had not expected much more. Nowadays, people had to be careful about what they let be known about them. There were all manner of crazies loose in world. I was confident that her school history might give me a clue or two though. I tossed the brochure in a litter basket and walked back to my car.
Traffic was light and I was back at my apartment in the city before noon. I parked in the basement garage and took the elevator up. I always enjoyed pressing the button for the top floor. There were only six apartments up there. Each one had its own roof garden and terrace. At night the city below was a carpet of Christmas lights. It cost a bloody fortune but what the hell I had money and the only thing I planned on leaving behind was a pot full of ashes.
I sat down at the computer and went to work. My best guess put her at around 28. She would have been a senior in '94. I key worded her high school with that year on six different search engines and finally found a David Martin who had graduated from there in '94. I figured she couldn't have been the only Martin in her school.
I got the number of the school library and identified myself to the librarian as David Martin. I told her the sad story of the fire that had destroyed my home and had burned up my prized high school yearbooks. I asked if I could impose on her to scan the pages from my senior year and zip them to me. She was so sorry for my bad luck and would be glad to help. I smiled at the phone as I hung up. It was, I thought, a 3 to 1 shot. I might have missed her age by a year either way but at the track those are the odds on a favorite.
I made a little lunch of smoked salmon and garlic bread and waited for the little voice to tell me I had mail.
An hour later I was feeling pretty smug. There she was, right next door to David Martin's acne peppered mug. A young and very serious Miara Martin, looking out into the future through a pair of glasses. She must have gotten contacts or had lasik. The rest was standard stuff. National Honor Society, debating team, the drama club, the literary magazine, Future Teachers of America. The only unusual bit was that there was nothing listed for sports. This woman was all about her head.
Knowing I had the year right made her college info a snap to get. The glasses were gone in this photo and there was the bare hint of a smile.
"You must have finally gotten laid." I said, smiling at her photo.
Otherwise it was all academic mentions, Dean's list, graduated summa cum laude and a PBK key. Still no mention of sports. I doubted she'd had much social life. Nope, my sweet Miara had not been in with the 'in' crowd.
I was waiting for her at 3:30. I was still waiting almost two hours later. She must have left with someone, I thought. A boyfriend! Why had I blocked out that obvious hurdle?
I had already started the car when she came swinging along and climbed into the Volvo. She was alone.
We were headed right back to her home and I was starting to wonder if today's routine was her whole life. I was thrilled when she stopped off at a little roadhouse called 'The Pig and Whistle'.
I gave her some time before I followed her inside. The place was crowded but I spotted her at the end of the bar. I got a beer and found some open space in front of a dartboard. Even though I had not let my eyes linger, I got the feeling she had recognized me but I couldn't be sure.
I kept my back to her and stalled by tossing the darts. It was time to make contact but I wanted it to seem a random meeting. I was going through the options when she saved me the trouble by tapping me on the shoulder. I turned and gave her my best smile.
"Excuse me," she said, "you probably don't remember… but we almost met yesterday."
"I remember." I assured her, "You're the lady who was searching for a perfect orange."
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