It's a warm summer day, shorts weather, as I make my almost weekly pilgrimage to a nearby wine store that features close-outs, that is, wines which are being sold off at highly reduced prices. Sometimes the wines are already too old, sometimes the bargain prices still exceed my self-imposed limits, but I've found close-outs to be great for acquiring wines that I ordinarily would not buy, and so extending my taste horizons as well as my "cellar", and alas, also straining my credit card. Because I'm not the only one with wine expertise who knows about the bargains, it pays to come often enough so that some competitor doesn't snatch up the best new bottles.

The wines are arrayed in open cases on a long table, white stickers with the original price, red ones with the discount price, so I always look them over carefully to spot any special deals. But there are usually even more: below the table, on the floor, are corrugated cardboard boxes with bottles that the staff will place on the table as soon as they have time and there's room. Looking through them gives me a competitive advantage over other buyers that comes at the price of getting low to the ground, pushing heavy boxes around, and searching through them.

Rather than bending over the boxes, I find it more comfortable to kneel on the floor, left knee on the ground, right leg up with the foot on the floor. It's a weekday afternoon, so the store is fairly empty, and I'm not getting in anyone's way. Then I hear a woman's voice:

"I love to see men beg."

With my mind fixed on the wine selections in front of me, it takes a while to digest the unexpected comment. Various odd images briefly flit though my mind. Responsive but non-committal I say

"Just kneeling at the altar of wine."

Back in her court. She moves away toward other shelves, comes back in my direction again, and after a while I hear

"Hey, great legs!"

Strikingly unusual that, but yes, not actually unjustified. After all, I've kept myself in good shape, and have always preferred real shorts to the modern style, the "doofus" shorts that go to the knee or even lower. To my great annoyance, almost all bathing suits for men are just as long, so I've taken to wearing running shorts at the beach instead. The "doofus" shorts are about as hideously unappealing as old men wearing shorts with black shoes and black socks pulled up to mid-calf. In my esthetic, proper shorts should extend to no lower than mid-thigh, and should be worn with turned-down light socks and white shoes. Why shouldn't men be able to show legs as well as women?

"That's the best thing I've heard in a long time."

"Do you play tennis?"

"No, but I run a lot."

An exchanged look, an exchanged smile. My new admirer goes off to the cash register with her purchases, and I continue searching through the boxes as before, left knee still to the floor. Not too long after, she comes back and hands me an index card.

"Call me sometime."

She heads off again as I look at the card; it has a first name and a phone number. I'm mildly but pleasantly stunned.

Back home, on the Internet, I look up the number in a reverse directory. The name matches, and there's a valid local address.

When I tell the story, people ask what she was like. I say that I think of a similarity to Susan Sarandon in the film Bull Durham - not a young girl yet to become a woman, nor someone with all my years. And on a good day, I can look, say, fifteen years younger than I am, and I think that that was a good day.

But I've lived long enough and read enough literature to know that a Lorelei causes shipwrecks and disasters. I suspect that the memory of that encounter and some light phantasizing will be its best part. And I would bet that showing my MBTA Senior card would damp any future interest although, who knows. Maybe she really just wanted to chat with me about wine, or look for a tennis partner!

If you ever read this, Pamela, you made my day, and a few more. And I do have to agree with you that I have great legs!