How I met your mother.

How I met your mother.

"Daddy."

My four-year-old daughter abandons her Lego creation and leans against my leg. Her boney elbow digs into my groin. Out of self-preservation I lift her up on my lap.

"What, baby?"

"Tell me the story again." she demands.

"Again?" I widen my eye in mock disbelief. Her blond curls, so like her mother's, bounce in affirmation.

She was a beacon in the smog of grey business suits that drifted around her on the subway platform. Among these minions, mindlessly scurrying to their dead-end jobs, she embodied the proud strength of a slender yellow tulip, the delicate fragrance of forget-me-nots and the movements of a symphony.

Mesmerized, my eyes glued to her, I followed her onto the train. I admired the poise with which she weaved through the crowd that parted automatically for her. Her smile when a seat was offered was warm yet reserved. The nod of acceptance was graceful yet distracted. Her eye contact was direct yet fleeting. She was both cordial and aloof, regal, and humble. She fascinated me to no end.

As soon as she rose and made her way toward the doors, I exited the car as well, following her as discreetly as I could while we made our way up toward daylight. Finding myself miles away, I messaged my office, cancelling my morning appointments. I was now free to let myself be washed along in her wake.

Wondering where this siren was leading me, I couldn’t help but fantasize about her. Was she a model on her way to a shoot, or was she on an errand for her boss? Maybe collecting a special item that couldn’t be trusted to a mere mail carrier. Was she a nanny with a few hours to herself now that her charge was safely tucked away in preschool? Or was she an art student in search of the perfect inspiration?

Her purposeful gait, the enticing sway of her hips wordlessly begged me to follow. Suddenly she stopped and pondered the window of a small artsy shop. Hand-woven fabrics and intricately wrought silver jewelry. Then she slipped into a bakery and bought a pastry, only to hand the small bag to a homeless man on the next corner. A little further on she studied the offerings at an independent movie house and took her time at the window of an antiques shop.

Why had she walked with such focus when she left the subway, only to be dawdling later? Was she merely out for a stroll in the early-summer day, or was she marking time before an appointment?

While she seemed interested in the window display of the small shop on the next corner, I waited a few shops back. For one terrifying moment, my view of her was obstructed by a pair of customers dallying while exiting the store where I lingered. In that split second she rounded the corner and was out of sight. Frantically, I stumbled around idle pedestrians and followed her.

But the street was clear of bewitching beauties.

I stopped, looked around and despaired at my loss. Slowly I walked down the side street, wondering how she had slipped away so quickly. Would I ever see her again? The third door from the corner, painted an inconspicuous off-white, one bell, no name, a simple mail slot, closed with a soft snick when I passed.

Frustrated at having missed her - if only I had been faster - I walked to the next corner. There, at a small kiosk, I bought the first paper my hand touched. I pretended to read the news but kept my eye on the door where I believed my temptress was. Several minutes passed before I realized that the paper was printed in Cyrillic script, and I may very well have been holding the few pages upside down.

Impatiently, trying to hide my embarrassment, I lowered the paper and looked back down the street, just in time to watch her exit the building. My heart sped up as my fingers gripped the newsprint, crushing the paper while I watched her stop on the sidewalk.

It pained me to see her shoulders slump, her head down in defeat. She seemed to be at a loss, her spirit crushed. I wanted to console her, champion her cause, right a wrong. Though I was painfully aware that I did not have that right.

Then my chest filled with pride when I saw her take a breath, noticed a new resolve stiffening her spine and clench her fists. Silently I applauded her inner strength. She looked around and stared directly at me. I admired the determination I saw growing within her as she lengthened her stride. With each step she took, I fell deeper under her spell. I ached to slide my fingers through her honey curls, wanted to taste and test the softness of her plump lips, wished to dive into her sea-blue eyes and …

… And then she was standing in front of me. Her eyes flashed with spirit; her mouth was firm with anger.

“Are you one of Dante’s men? Did he send you to follow me?”

Startled, I felt my knees tremble, as I woke from my trance.

“Excuse me? No, I don’t ... I don’t know… No! Nobody sent me. Why? Are you in trouble? Do you need help?”

She waved off my question. “Then why are you following me?" She frowned. "Should I know you? Have we met before?”

Oh, damn! I felt myself blush. Why did she make me feel so nervous?

“Um … erm … oh.” I stammered and watched helplessly as she raised her perfect eyebrows, furrowing her smooth brow. I floundered when I saw a storm darken her eyes. I stifled a whimper when her fists settled on her hips, a stance all girls seem to learn early from their mothers.

“I saw you on the platform.” I hurried to confessed. “Surely you know that you are ... Everyone else in grey and black and you are, well …“ I shrugged. At a loss for words, I lifted my hands and tried to find the exact phrase. “You are sunshine, mesmerizing, enchanting. I’m sorry. It was inappropriate of me to follow, but ….”

I groaned and frantically looked around, searching for inspiration. Needing to convince her that I was not really the creepy stalker I appeared to be.

“But if you are in trouble … ” I grasped at the little she let slip, wanting to keep her nearby. “If you think someone would have you followed … Can I help with anything?”

She stared at me, seemed to think about her answer and weigh her options. Her solemn gaze did little to steady my nerves. Finally, she looked away, allowing me to breathe. She smiled, be it ruefully.

“Yes.” She nodded distractedly. “Yes, I’m in trouble. I don’t know if you, or anyone can help. But it’s sweet of you to offer.” Her voice trailed off, she was already looking away, ready to leave.

Carefully I touched her forearm, then realizing I had no right to touch a goddess, I pulled back.

“You may be right.” I nodded. “Maybe I can’t help. But if you don’t try, if you don’t …” I pleaded awkwardly. “We’ll never know if I could have.”

Many emotions tumbled across her beautiful face. Fear? Disgust? Resignation? Wonder? Hope?

“I took too long, imaging who you were, and missed an appointment.” she allowed. Then pulled herself to her full height. Her voice became firm, defiant even.

 “But I won’t go back. I just can’t do it. I thought I could, but …” She seemed impatient with herself as she wiped at a wet cheek.

“Well then, that’s settled. You won’t. What is your plan B?” I prompted.

She shook her head, huffed a wry laugh laced with disgust. “There is no plan B.”

“Well, alright, then.” I offered her my arm. We were both surprised when she slid her hand under my elbow. I tried not to show how thrilled I was with her touch.

“I think I saw a small park back there.” I pointed toward the street we left minutes ago. “We can sit on a bench and think of plan B or C and then ...” I smiled down at her as we started walking.

"And then I was born six months later, right Daddy?" my daughter yawns and dozes off.

"Yes, you were." I whisper and hold her while she sleeps. Too soon she'll be too big for this.