“It was meant to be”

—So said my pretty little jogger friend the other morning along Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
I’m heading back toward my car, I hear footsteps behind me, she jogs past, then stops and turns toward me, smiling, eyes sparkling. (“Broken-record alert!”)
“Oh my goodness,” I say.
“We meet again,” she says.
“Fifth or sixth time?” I ask.
“Can I just say one little thing?” I asked. (Permission readers…..)
“You were thrilled I struck up a conversation that first time we met. And I was thrilled myself that doing that went over as well as it did. I was surprised.
And one more thing,” I asked.
“This morning was hard getting going,” I said. “My wife died nine years ago, I don’t have my dog anymore, I live alone, so sometimes I feel very depressed.
Then I come out here and hike this rail-trail and I meet you.
Why do I always hike this rail-trail?” I said. “In hopes of meeting you.”
“Well,” I thought to myself later; “my dog’s ashes are along this rail-trail too.
Back-and-forth, back-and-forth, nose-to-the-ground, furiously barking into the woods. ‘Critters beware!’”
“That is so sweet!” she cooed. (Same response every time.)
“What kind of dog was he, and what was his name?” she asked.
“Killian, as in Killian Irish-red,” (say it twice); “an Irish-Setter.“
“Awwww,” again.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada-yada-yada”……
At least five minutes of continuous face-to-face yammering.
But I like hearing her pretty voice.
“High five,” she exclaimed, as she readied to continue. (She wanted to touch me: “GASP!”)
Yr Fthfl Srvnt is reconsidering what makes a girl attractive.
I’m beginning to think it’s just that the girl likes me.
The fact my wife liked me is what attracted me to her.
She was plain at first, but flowered into this extraordinary person I could talk to. Philosophy, meaning-of-life, obscure concepts, they all were in there. And somehow or other I got ‘em all going.
We’d complete each other’s sentences, or “I was just thinking the same thing!”
The other day I hiked all the way around Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool to say goodbye to one of my new lifeguard friends.
“Hi Bob,” she smiled, eyes sparkling. (“KerClick, KerClick, KerClick, KerClick!”)
I think I made her happy; she radiated happiness. (“She was faking it!”)
Ergo: she likes me. It’s not lust — are you kidding? 77 years old, 40-50 pounds overweight, flabby, and way over-the-hill, although I don’t remember a hill. I’m old enough to be her grandfather!
I’m beginning to think what matters is that the girl likes me. It’s happened all-too-many times already, and every time it does I am smitten.
“No pretty girl will like you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!” (“KerClick, KerClick, KerClick!”)
My jogger-friend seems to like me. (“Never in a million years!”)