Rachel Kinsey always met men. Frequently unsuitable ones. Buskers whistling on pan pipes or thrumming drums. Winos old and young. Patched-up homeless with shopping carts asking for a handout. But also construction workers, computer techs, teachers. She related to all sorts, always inherently able to identify the human element in each.
Her universal appeal to them was a sympathetic outlook and an open, trusting demeanor, the result of her big hazel eyes fringed with curly lashes and her teddy-bear rounded cheeks. She may not have been the most gorgeous female in town, but she oozed empathy, compassion for their problems, understanding about their clashes with friends and family.
Their universal appeal to her was a human connection with the male of the species. Men of all shapes, sizes, and colors fascinated her. She considered them as nearly a separate class of creatures. Lacking brothers, cousins, uncles and assorted other men in her family, and robbed of the weak connection she’d had with an emotionally distant father when he divorced her mother, she made males the subject of informal but intense scrutiny. She knew this weakness for fellow mortals, even unreliable or penniless fellows, caused many of her personal problems. But the failing, which had culminated in a defunct marriage with an infrequently employed handyman, also had brought her son Scott, now ten, so she loosed her curiosity unfettered.
Late one afternoon in August she announced to her sister, “I met a man today.”
“You’re always meeting men. Usually unsuitable ones,” her sister snapped back.
“I don’t know if he’s unsuitable, but he was tall and had the brownest eyes. I’d know him if I saw him again.” In her musings, she tilted the water pitcher somewhere in the vicinity of the glasses.
Sharon turned from the stove where she was wafting spoons of spaghetti sauce through clouds of steam and tomato splatterings. “Rachel,” she whooped and jumped across the kitchen to rescue the pitcher before the water spilled. “Was he another one of your weirdoes?” Sharon asked as she put the pitcher on the counter.
“Oh, no. None of those. He was just a regular man. Had a decent haircut. Even wore a sports jacket. Although he did look…a bit ragged around the cuffs. And his tie was off-center.”
“So a touch of vulnerability. Where did you meet him?”
“Outside Super Shop ”
“What does he do?” asked Sharon.
“I don’t know.”
“Where does he live?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. All I know is I want to see him again.”
“Well, you realize the chances of that.” Sharon moved the spaghetti pan to the sink and began draining it.
“Yes, slim and none,” Rachel recited Sharon’s standard philosophy.
(Read more in Heart-Strong, Prism Book Group, http://tinyurl.com/hvrv9e4)
BIO:
Bonnie McCune credits tenacity for the successes in her life. Since fifth grade, she’s been determined to be a writer. Thousands of rejections along with some acceptances taught her the craft, and after decades, she decided to follow her passion, fiction writing. Her recent novels are proof of her persistence.
Her interest in writing led to her career in nonprofits focusing on public and community relations and marketing. She has worked for libraries, directed a small arts organization, and managed Denver’s beautification program. Her civic involvement includes grass-roots organizations, political campaigns, writers’ and arts’ groups, and children’s literacy.
Simultaneously, Bonnie’s been a free lance writer with publications in local, regional, and specialty publications for news and features. For years, she entered recipe contests and was once a finalist in the Pillsbury Cook Off. She’s collected awards for her short fiction. For more information and her blog, see her website www.BonnieMcCune.com.
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