The One-Nighter

 

I had just completed a night of drunken debauchery with my friends and was heading home alone when I saw her. She sat on the curb, her head in her hands, not necessarily sobbing, but certainly weeping a bit. I could see right away she was beautiful. And though I was tired, I stopped and asked her if she was ok.

“No,” she replied.

I asked if there were anyplace she would like me to take her.

She starting crying again and shook her head.

I asked her if she had anyplace to go.

“No,” she said,

I think I probably paused a moment or two before I finally asked her if she would like to stay at my place for the night. She didn’t say a word. She just stopped her crying and climbed right into my car.

“What if I were some sort of serial killer or rapist?” I asked her on the way home.

“It doesn’t matter,” she admitted.

I remember thinking then, Boy, I’ve got a live one here!

I gave her the bed. I didn’t figure it would hurt me to sleep on the couch for one night.

Sometime during the night or early in the morning she departed with the silent stealth of a creeping cat. When I awoke at my usual 8:00am, all I found was a made-up bed with a fluffed-up pillow and a “Thank You” scrawled in black lipstick across my bathroom mirror.

I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. Don’t really care. We were just two lives passing through each other in the night. I did her a favor; she did me one too.

That was the last one-night stand I ever had

 

© 1998 Bryan Patrick Deno

 

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