In the Arms of the Goddess of Love

Beauty? Yes, that was one word for her.

I’ll tell you a story of the day I met Venus.

No, I didn’t meet her on a seashore in Italy. I didn’t glimpse her in a museum in Europe. I didn’t see her in the ruins of some breathtaking vista.

I saw her in, of all places, a diner just off Route 66.

Laugh if you like. I swear it’s true. She’s a lovely creature — something to behold, to be sure — even with French fry grease in her hair and her mascara smeared from an eight-hour shift on her feet.

Yes, Venus was a waitress in 21st century America.

Imagine that.

I didn’t recognize her at first. Old magic will do that to anyone. I inhaled the scent of my coffee and watched the waitress with the pretty eyes as she went from table to table. When she bent over one vinyl bench to pick up a stray napkin, I couldn’t help but admire her from behind. But the puzzle pieces didn’t click right then. Just because I watched her didn’t mean a damn thing. I’d been attracted to many women in my fifty-odd years on the planet: what was one more?

But then she looked up at me, her eyes searching, and my heart thrummed in my chest.