Surprises

It's late afternoon, and I'm walking home for work, all decked out in my dress for success clothes, although they are somewhat worse for wear.  My job requires man-handling 8-foot tables, crawling on the floor to plug in projectors, and picking up dirty dishes and moving chairs around.  A lot of people think my receptionist job is glamorous; if they only knew.  It's the early 1980s and there's a recession going around.

It's mid-spring and the trees in my older end of town are in bloom.  It's a fairy land.  I love these longer days that stretch until about 9:00 p.m.

At one of the older homes, a little boy, about four, waits on his front stoop, sitting on a trike.  He sees me blocks away and waits until I'm in front of his house.  Then he makes a bee-line for me. a furious peddle.

He wants to have a chat.  "Do you have any surprises?"  he asks. He's got dark hair and eyes.  "No, " I say.  He's parked on my high heeled shoes and is looking straight up at me.  "Why do you ask?"

The little guy is as earnest a soul as you can find, and explains,  "My dad says women are just full of surprises."