Three years passed before I heard from her again. A late night, an unexpected knock, and there she was. What could she be thinking, I wondered as I stared at the slim figure in the cream sweater. The sweater was smooth and clingy and tucked tightly into her jeans. She smiled coyly, but said nothing. What could she be thinking, I asked myself again. What if I was married or living with someone? What if I just didn't want ever to see her again? What if I had gotten over her and just didn’t care? Of course, none of that would have bothered her. So few things did bother her. She let all the bothersome things slide over and around her as she passed through life, reaching out to take whatever she wanted. I had been something she wanted until I became one of the things that bothered her. Then she moved along, eager to leave me behind and find someone new. She had thought I was her soul mate, but my soul couldn’t measure up to her standards. Soul mate. That was a funny way to describe an interaction that is largely about bodies, that thrives on sex and small talk and has nothing to do with heavy baggage items like souls, whatever they may be. “You might as well come in,” I said. Not surprisingly, she did.
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