Six – Love


Alan went to in a dark disco bar in San Jose on a November night. He asked Donna, the woman with an amazing tan, to dance.
Had she been to Hawaii? Mexico? The Bahamas? Alan didn’t ask her but admired her bronzed skin.
The topic of tennis came up. Alan loved to play. So did Donna.
“Do you want to play sometime?” he asked.
“Sure,” Donna said. “How about tomorrow?”
They agreed to play at San Jose City College, near her house.
Alan had a friend that played collegiate tennis. Donna had a friend that played, too. They decided to play doubles.
When Alan knocked on Donna’s door, she had her big 1980’s cordless phone in her hand.
“Just a sec,” she said. “I need to finish this call.”
Alan was frozen. Donna’s great tan was no tan at all. It was a thousand freckles, on her face, her arms, everywhere. This was before the days of sunblock, and Donna was an outdoor sports girl. Her skin had paid the price.
Even though Donna was fit and trim and had a fun personality, Alan couldn’t get past the freckles.
Alan’s friend and Donna’s friend did not hit it off, either.
The women whipped their butts that day and won six-love.
Alan thanked Donna for the game and took her home. He didn’t call her again. Even though he was half Irish himself, he was too freaked out by the freckles.

Couldda Wouldda shouldda
If Alan would’ve given Donna a chance, he would’ve found her to be a loving gal with a great personality. Their children would’ve been three quarters Irish, and Alan would’ve invested heavily in the stock market with any company that made sunblock lotion. That would’ve proved a wise idea, and the twosome would live comfortably in Northern California. Their fair-faced children would still get freckles, though not as many as their mother. Whenever Alan had trouble getting them to apply sunblock, he would say, “Look at Mom!”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s