Wonders never cease

—“We gotta stop meeting like this,” said the pretty girl as she jogged past smiling.
We were on Lehigh Valley RailTrail, and I just got done asking her if she was the same jogger I met before.
That time we had a wonderful time just talking to each other. Apparently I said the right things, and I wasn’t hitting on her.
She said she hoped we’d meet again. But I know how it goes. I meet some pretty lady, and we talk and talk and talk, she smiles and smiles at me; we’re striking sparks.
I also hope we’ll meet again, but we don’t. I can count the many ladies I’ve struck sparks with: the girl with a few gray hairs, the smiling bicyclist resting on a rock, the lady on Ontario Pathways who liked our talking so much she became embarrassed our joy was unfair to her husband — who wasn’t there.
Billions upon billions of pretty ladies are on this planet, all of whom would be great fun to talk with.
Me and that jogger struck sparks, but never again in a million years.
Yet there we were!
“Happy to see ya!” I said, along with “holy mackerel!”
She didn’t stop like last time, but kept running.
I hoped I’d meet her again before I left, but I didn’t.
I’d ask her if she ran there a few days ago — same pink jacket, same black running-tights, and same black hat.
She was running down the path next to the trail parking-lot.
She’d probably say it was her, but she was too far away to renew our friendship.
She’s pretty enough to attract the loathsome lotharios — and I’m not a loathsome lothario. I’m 76 years old, and not on-the-hunt.
But I enjoy talking to pretty ladies. I can tell a lady she’s pretty; “it’s one of the perks of old age,” I say.
If I can tell that jogger she’s attractive, without being a hot-to-trot lothario, it’s worth it to see her smile.
Men, especially strangers, are usually no fun. They get defensive.