I used to know this girl in high school. Chocolate-colored hair, Malibu Canyon curves, light-up-a-room smile. When she’d tip from the waist to open her locker, hundreds of masculine eyes would drift East and West to gather a glimpse. She’d rest her books atop her chest and parade around campus with the sort of seductive slink that causes your average male teen to blush and require a chair. Locker room talk included terms like “hot” “smoking” and the crass, circa late eighties refrain, “doable.” She spent little time eyeballing anyone young enough to require a fake I.D. and even the insignificant flirtatious glances she tossed out to assuage the student population, felt more like a philanthropic gesture than anything encouraging. I adored her. Which brings me to the point.
Yesterday, the lottery was worth $640 million dollars. For the last several weeks, its ascending value has grown in convenience store windows across the land. When it passed the nine-figure mark, I felt that familiar sub-waist, mid-seam pang, the salacious mating call of the financial temptress. All those high school fantasies returned – the rolling around on the bed with her, the free-flowing frenzy as legs and arms flailed about, the joyful screams followed by the ecstatic fall back onto the pillow and she falls on top of me. Her allure was too strong. I folded. At $640,000,000, I purchased a ticket. This morning I awoke to the disappointing news. She was sleeping with some Grandpa on the east coast.
When will I ever learn!