She arrived at the party dressed in a miniskirt that had been approved by her 85 year-old widowed neighbor and her 20-something smart-ass doorman. Having a crush on the party's host, she was ever more anxious to impress with her new, hard-won figure. She had been to the same party, thrown in the same place, by the same man for every Independence Day that she could remember. Everyone always congregated at Mitch's to have a sky-high front row view of the fireworks, along with the rare opportunity for real suburban barbeque in the middle of the City.
Mitch greeted her with uncharacteristic compliments. She basked in the attention she had tried hard to win, but there was no sign that he had changed his mind. He walked her out to the balcony and introduced her to two men. There was something absolutely immediate about one of them, an inexplicable wave of emotion swelled for this new soul. Her brain lit up with fireworks before the show even began. She cast Mitch aside to learn why this stranger had such a pull on her.
As more people rolled into the party, her attention was pulled in a dozen directions. Fate tossed her about the apartment like a pinball, and soon he was lost to her. But as people rearranged to see the fireworks, he had moved to a prime location overlooking one of the barges floating directly beneath their twentieth floor view. She walked over and coolly asked "is this space taken?"
With the warmest smile she had ever seen, his eyes alight, he said "yes, I have been saving it for you." They stood side by side watching the brilliant display. She, standing on one ankle so her six inch platforms would not make her taller than him. He, unable to figure out what to do next.
On July 4th, she turned to him and quite seriously said "I'm cold." He placed his arm around her. The rest, as they say, is history.
Note: I would like to dedicate this to the real Mitch, who passed just over three years ago of pancreatic cancer in his mid-40s. My husband, my son, and I owe him everything. We miss him dearly.