Like a House on Fire

I was out walking the Boo this week through our hilly, foothill neighborhood when a big fire truck drove up next to me.  A couple of fire fighters jumped out to check the curbside fireplug (a sad reminder that we’re moving into fire season already).  We were in a narrow cul de sac, so I carefully maneuvered the dog away from the big truck.  As I was walking by, one of the guys in the truck yelled, “Hey! Are you ignoring me on purpose?”

Now I know that I possess many charms, but am not sufficiently deluded to think that Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome was trying to catch my eye to flirt. I looked up, puzzled, and realized that he must be our friend Doug’s son, Steve. Who happens to be the only firefighter I know in the entire world. And whom I’ve met twice, once over dinner and once on a daylong wine-tasting trip to Santa Barbara.

A little embarrassed not to have recognized Steve immediately, we caught up with a nice, long chat.  It wasn’t until I said, “Boy, Steve, this trip to France we’re planning with your dad is really giving him fits,” that Steve got this odd look on his face.

“Uh, I don’t think I’m who you think I am,” he said.

“Uh,” I said, “Aren’t you Steve?”

“Nope, I’m Patrick.”

Oops.

We both grinned, a little abashed, wished each other a good afternoon, and I continued on my way.  Boo’s tail wasn’t between her legs but mine was.

To make myself feel better about my poor memory for faces, I tried to convince myself that maybe he was flirting with me.  Then I got home and looked at myself in the mirror.  Shlumpy shorts and top, battered sneakers, and hair sticking up in various directions….  OK, I guess not.

Oh well. A girl can dream, can’t she?

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2 Responses

  1. Hilarious!

  2. Very, very funny!

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