She waved goodbye to me

—“Oh my goodness,” I said to myself is I entered the swimming-pool area at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
*****, my pretty lifeguard friend at that swimming-pool, was back from Florida, tanned, and lifeguarding that pool.
I looked for her earlier; she was probably in the bathroom. I figgered she was still in Floridy.
Suddenly I gotta be confident with *****, the lady-friend I currently fear most.
***** is 65 years old, but very impressive for her age. She looks late 40s on her lifeguard stand.
Somehow or other ***** and I became friends, despite all the foul-ups I made with her.
I guess she found me interesting, or at least worth befriending. I always feel like she could do way better than me.
***** walked around and we began talking. “No pretty lady will talk to you!” But ***** isn’t walking away.
—Enter stage right: what little experience I have talking with women:
Let her talk! Don’t interrupt! She’s talking to me. She’s not losing interest. She isn’t walking away.
We talked a while; just back-and-forth. “Where in Florida?” I asked. Let her tell me. Don’t interrupt!
If there’s one thing I learned since my wife died, it’s to cherish a lady talking to you. Do that and we develop an interest in each other.
My interest in ***** was misdirected at first; you could even call it semi-romantic.
She said hello to me by name in passing — probably just being sociable.
“Why in Hell's name is she talking to me? She could do way better!”
That’s the ghost of Hilda Q. Walton surfacing to haunt me:
“no pretty lady will ever talk to you!”
On-and-on we went; yet ***** hung with me, despite my many flubs and foul-ups, one of which was a real zinger. (I been advised to not use the word “boner.”)
***** is married of course, yet somehow or other we managed to get past my original romantic intent.
So now, at long last, we seem to be just friends; which is how it shoulda been originally, and how I prefer; since I’m still semi married myself, even nine years after my wife died.
I doubt I could get physical, yet I really like talking to her — she reverses “no pretty lady will ever talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
Many lady-friendships have developed since ***** first said hello to me. Faire Hilda has been reversed. 14,000 rpm in her casket.
So talking with ***** became important, and continues I hope.
Yr Fthfl Srvnt has always been a little scared I might turn her off.
“No pretty lady will ever talk to you!” Yet we keep talking, which makes me feel like I’m getting away with murder = Hilda and my hyper-zealous parents are reversed!
*****’s lifeguarding ended at noon, so she departed as my balance-training class ended.
I changed clothes to leave myself, then departed the YMCA.
As I walked toward my car, I think ***** waved at me as she drove out herself. I couldn't see who was driving, but it was her car, a Subaru.
“Would I have noticed if it had been pretty *****, head-honcho at my Honeoye Falls pharmacy? Pretty ***** I’m fairly confident with. I am not as confident with *****.
Maybe I should not be so lacking in confidence; after all she did wave at me.
All of this freaks out my critics: mere verbal interchange between persons of the opposite sex is normal to them, but salacious to someone like me raised by Bible-beaters.

• A recent crotch-rocket motorcycle might be capable of 14,000 rpm. A Detroit V8 will start tearing itself apart at 8,000 (if it gets there).