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Kent proudly announced he only washed with “Irish Spring” when I asked him to take a shower in my bathroom. His tanned muscular body and slate blue eyes convinced me his Irish upbringing had their own designated soap.

It was an early warm Indian Summer September morning in San Francisco in 2006 when I rushed out of the house to make my 7am Yoga class. When I arrived, I read the “Class Cancelled” sign in front of the door and wondered what else I should be doing in my Yoga clothes for the next few hours.

On my way back home, I stopped at the Arco station on 19th Avenue and Pacheco to fill up my gas tank. As I walked over to the right side of my car to pump gas, I looked across the adjacent space and saw the most beautiful rugged man pumping diesel into his 4×4 white truck. He looked like an extra from a Marlboro commercial without a cowboy hat.

“Good Morning” he said as he peered over his truck.

I looked around and behind me to realize no one else was pumping gas but us and responded with, “Hey.”

Tilting his head, “How’s your morning going for you?”

I realized that morning had started and responded by saying, “Not great, my yoga class was cancelled.”

“Do you like Golf?”

“No, not really, why do you ask?”

Our pedestrian conversation continued until he gave me his name and I drove off with a full tank of gas and a gorgeous man’s phone number who I met at a gas station at 7am in the morning.

Kent and I dated for 6 months. We spent afternoons together, he taught me how to play and watch and gamble on golf. He had the right amount of mystery that kept me intrigued but not obsessed.

His timing was impeccable – enough to keep me intrigued but not obsessed. His texts would arrive at exact time when doubts would cross my mind and his phone calls kept me company when I was feeling alone.

He never slept over – he was concerned about my sleep and didn’t want me to lose sleep- besides, what would my daughter think? Instead we would have lingering good-byes when he would leave after midnight with the same urgency as a modern male version of Cinderella

One morning I had to catch a 9:30am flight to Amsterdam and he offered to drive me to the airport and said he would be there by 6:30 in the morning so he could crawl into bed with me before I left. He arrived and we held each other, fucked and he helped me pack and went downstairs to get my suitcase.

We drove in his black Honda accord, a car he said he borrowed from his room mate. He ate starbursts and held my hand while driving me down 101. When we arrived curbside, he opened his trunk and his strong arms carried my 50-pound suitcase the way he carried his lunch. We kissed goodbye.

I found my window seat on the United flight #877 and buckled myself in for a 5.0 hour ride to Chicago. I knew it would be a long day of flying. We were in flight for little more than 40 minutes when I felt my body start shaking, my heart beating, and hands sweating and I began to cry. I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror and sobbed uncontrollably. I put water on the back of my neck trying to avoid fainting and tried to catch my breath. I held myself from shaking uncontrollably and realized his scent was not Irish Spring soap, it was some Vanilla coconut girly thing. I counted the minutes, miles and announcements before we landed in Chicago O’Hare.

I was so angry with myself- actually it was at my intuition. You know the one you ignore and it softly nudges you, gradually pokes you and until it kicks your ass because you are not paying attention.

The plane lands and I work my way out with my luggage to an area where I have cell reception and call my sister in a complete panic.

“What’s wrong, are you ok?” my sister asks.
“Please find out everything you can about him, nothing isn’t right.”
“What do you mean?
“He’s married.”


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