THE CHICK WHO JACKED ME

If you live alone, it's confusing when a good looking woman shows up in your house and taps you in the bald spot with a semi-automatic Browning HP. That's what happened to me when I was watching my favorite soap that I'd tivoed. I was all relaxed, sitting on the couch that I got from my uncle's office, drinking a sixty-four ounce Dr. Pepper, and then she came in wanting money.
      The barrel of the gun was an intimidating piece of equipment to look at. The perpetrator, however, wasn't. Despite the aggressive introduction, she had this fragile quality that suggested she needed to be loved--just like Dorian, from my soap, who did bad things but wasn't really bad.
      "You're really robbing me?"
      She took a step back, as if she felt guilty, but kept her gun pointed at me. "No. I'm seeking donations for my criminal defense fund."
      "Why do you need a defense fund?"
      "Because people think I'm a robber."
      I started to point out the illogic in her statement, but she waved her gun from side to side, shutting me up. "Sir, I am the chicken and the egg."
      When she said this, I realized her life had gotten out of control in a way that wasn't her fault. I imagined that she had somehow gotten in this situation because she was trying to save the life of some Afghani Orphan or perhaps she was a central player in the war on terror. She nodded at me, as if approving my silent judgment of her. What we both needed was to make love, for me to put the bullet in her chamber.
      "Please," she said. "Money."
      I pointed toward the kitchen. "My wallet's on top of the microwave. And make sure to look in the cupboard and grab the envelope. I keep two hundred dollars in it."
      She headed for the kitchen, snatched what she needed and walked out the back door. I sat there on my uncle's couch trying to process what had happened. I clicked the television off, not wanting to hear the voice of Dorian when I could reflect on the essence of my own foxy Robin Hood. Had I fallen in love? Is this how it happens?
      And then she appeared outside my window, looking in. I stared back. Neither of us moved. We savored our moment, as if this were a non-contact visit at a jail. I hoped she would push her breast against the window, just to give me a peek of what may come. Instead, she pressed her palm against the glass, inviting me to do the same. It must've been cold out there, because the window started to steam up, muting her beauty. It occurred to me that if I felt differently about her in the morning, I could call the police and have her prints lifted. But for the moment, I decided to meet her at the partition to consummate the pressing of the palms.