August 20, 2004
Vonnie was, without a doubt, the sexiest woman I've ever known. I met her back during my guitar-playing days and she lived with me for about three months, then remained a frequent visitor to my house after she got her own apartment. She was from Texas.
She liked sex and she liked me. She wrote poetry that I enjoyed reading and she could give a blow... well, never mind about that. We got along well together. She was as uninhibited as I was and we could make a water bed boil.
But Vonnie got homesick and went back to Texas on a Greyhound bus. I took her to the station at 9:00 at night and kissed her one last time. She left a shoe in my car. One shoe that fit a pretty, dainty foot with red toenails. I never saw her again.
I did talk to her on the phone about 10 years later. She got married, had children and was working as a regional manager for a chain of convenience stores. She didn't like it when I called her "Vonnie." She was Yvonne now and the past we had was in the rear-view mirror.
"I did a lot of stupid things when I was young, Rob," she told me. "You weren't one of them, but I'm not Vonnie anymore. I would appreciate it if you didn't call me by that name." I didn't after that. I called her Yvonne and when I hung up the phone that day, I believe that it was the first time I ever felt old.
I don't know what happened to that shoe she left in my car. I wish I still had it.
And I don't know why I thought about her today.
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