The Maggie Misadventure

She is terrific. She is fantastic. She is highly addictive. She is Maggie.


(My hair looks like feathers. Bloody hell, I stole this outfit from the Beatles during the Sgt. Pepper years.)

I thought that it was game over with Maggie. After talking a few times, we met for the first time, had sushi (in Fort Collins, and it was remarkably GOOD), talked a few more times.

Then Thanksgiving. Then complete radio silence. Phone calls went unanswered and unreturned. After the brilliant time we'd had together, I was shocked. Shocked and saddened.

I'd written her off as just someone who wasn't interested. Which is fine; frankly, I've been on the wrong end of that equation enough to A) be used to it, and B) not really get bent out of shape about it anymore. So there I was, square 1.

Then, last night... missed a call on my way home from watching the Broncos suck it up in another loss, and after getting home, checked the phone to find it was Maggie who'd called.

Now.

If I was a game player, I would not have called back. I would not have responded at all. I would have let the sleeping dog lie.

I called. She answered. We talked.

It was... terrific. Like a breath of air for a drowning man, I felt refreshed; reinvigorated.

And though I'm not getting my hopes up, though I've been down this road too many times to really believe that something could come of this... here I am.

Hopeful.