Mrs. Hero

Dear Butch,

I really don’t know how it all happened.

One moment I am walking through the parking lot at work.  I was running late, trying to navigate my rolling briefcase, a bundle of files in my arms, and dodging between parked vehicles.  Normally I don’t wear high heels at work.  My job involves a lot of moving about during the day, so flats are the best plan for my safety.  But, I had woken up feeling super femme and slipped into a pair of three-inch wedge sandals.  It was all too much: being in a rush, hands full, heels strapped on.  I caught my shin on a truck bumper and went down, hard.  Ass down, skirt hiked up, heels askew, gasping to catch my breath, and bleeding profusely from my shin.

It all happened so fast.

I shut my eyes for a second trying to collect myself and opened them to find you at my side, out of thin air.  We haven’t actually met before, but I have stopped in my tracks twice watching you interview for a job in my office.  And now, here we were.  Face to face.  Your hand on my shoulder.  We were up and on our way to the emergency room moments later.  I was in your car with your button down pressed against my leg when I noticed the silver band on your left ring finger.  You held my hand as my shin was numbed, cleaned, and stitched shut and I wondered if your wife knows how lucky she is.  You brought me home, helping me hobble up to my door and making sure I was settled before you left.

I still don’t know your last name.  But thank you for being my hero of the year.




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