I first saw Vivian at The Old Rats motorcycle gang’s charity ride for the animal shelter. She seemed to be in charge, with her megaphone and its feedback. She made me want to look up mortality figures for motorcyclists. I introduced myself while her engine was running, and she just nodded. I donated three hundred dollars to the shelter, but, as I’ve said before, it’s been decided that I should no longer own dogs. But her correction-fluid blonde hair, all that black leather! She wasn’t beautiful, but still startling. She had a screeching chocolate lab puppy in her lap as she rode, charitably. My injured confidence was scabbing over.

I learned later that Vivian is not the leader of The Old Rats, but rather their Communications Director, thus the megaphone. She must have an email address! I needed a new email address. A space that would only collect good news, none of the ruck I receive from the dating sites. 

To be fair, there are things about me that other people must hate, things I don’t even register. Even in our brief introduction, Vivian may have encountered one of these things. I emailed her regardless.

Ostensibly, I was writing to see if I could be provided a receipt for my donation to the animal shelter. For my records, I said. Vivian wrote back that their printer was broken, but please consider this email my receipt. Then she wrote, I googled you. I’m sorry for your loss. It doesn’t seem right that people can invade your grief. But I never owned my late wife, nor news about her. So I took the note as a good sign. I assumed her role with The Old Rats really meant something. But was this courtship? I would not be keeping records of this.