by Russell Weil

The second worst way to begin any epic tale is with the words “Once upon a time…”, and while I’m unsure of the worst I can be fairly certain it has nothing to do with describing what the princess is wearing.

Leather pants.

I discovered her on the ides of July sometime after most morning-only kindergartens let out and it was immediately obvious her pants were made of something other than, well, whatever it is blue jeans are made of. If I had known where the story was going right then it’s unlikely I would have made my move but I always find myself motivated in awkward situations thanks the wise words of a friend, “The only difference between a husband and a stalker is the way the story ends.”

“I’ve been writing poetry about you for years,” I said and in retrospect wish I had the wits the stop myself right then. But alas no such wisdom from me, “It’s been about a beautiful girl who just doesn’t know how to dress. I didn’t know specifically who it was until just now, might I ask, is your name Gabe?”

It wasn’t.

For some reason my mythical girl was always named Gabrielle but went by Gabe for short. Perhaps subconsciously this whole thing was due to the fact that Gabe was easier to fit into verse than Vanessa or Stevena. No, now that I mention it my reason was clearly my inability to come up with a better name.

“In the months - nay - years leading up to this moment I’ve always dreamed of the words I’d use to ask you to coffee. Alas everything I’ve ever dreamed seems petty now as I actually stand in your shadow, gazing on your continence.”

This was actually nearly the words I had dreamed I would always use. Later I wrote down these lines and edited them while shaving shirtless in my bathroom after showering. I would write each word on the steam-produced canvas of my mirror and then erase them and rewrite. Each time waiting longer for the canvas to re-etch-a-sketch-renew itself. Each time the pick up line becoming more poetic and sounding less rehearsed. 

After saying it in real life however, it was immediately obvious ‘continence’ was going to be over her head. I could never expect her to share the same love for words I had had since my first fifth grade game of scrabble.

“So will you, leather-panted Grace,” again, so good with words I can write/rewrite and so bad when they come out rough-drafted, “join me for a cup of coffee across the street at Starbuck’s?”

In my poetry our first drink was always coffee (later switching to wine) at a local joint called Starry Night; a restaurant on the other side of town featuring a wall sized painting by van Gogh of the same name. Again I found myself impressed at my prophetic poetry perfectly predicting a poorly dressed beautiful women on a spectacularly-groomed-grass-lined sidewalk in a summer afternoon, but then getting the side of town completely wrong. Asking a woman to Starry Night simply makes for a better re-telling of how we met years later with other married couples by fireside on Thanksgiving.

But alas, the man won. And by man clearly I mean corporate America. An idea I myself do not understand but to which I vowed never to submit my honor alongside a Polish friend of mine who was more passionate about local politics than words.

I digress. At this point we entered for coffee and stood in line for what must have been forever until we could order. My standard drink, a decaf soy latte as I’m both lactose intolerant and abnormally adverse to caffeine, could not be ordered in this situation should I hope to swoop this woman off her feet. So I stuck with a macchiato - a word I still do not understand. She ordered a hot chocolate. Something I tried not to read too much into, but I was failing to make conversation after the initial contact (much to the dismay of my well laid plan) and it was easier and easier to think Grace imperfect.

“So tell me about yourself,” I finally managed.

“Well. My name is Grace, like I said. Um… I’m totally excited about being in High School next year and…”