Thank God. Just last night under a clear winter sky, I had wished for a sign, or at least some kind of divine intervention from the matchmakers of the world —all those well-meaning friends who are far more upset over my single status than I am. They drop by unannounced to offer me comfort and advice and descriptions of various men as if they are hot entrees on a silver platter.Now I look out my window to see a very large foreign object out there in the blowing snow, a big white rusty truck parked in my side yard. I put on my heavy coat and boots and go out there, circle it a few times. There are no tire tracks leading in or footprints leading out. No license plate or inspection sticker. The front bumper is a two-by-four. A wet note penned on a coffee-stained napkin is under the wiper: You, cute-looking owner of the little scrappy dog, please don’t tow or complain. I need you. Please. I’ll be back soon.I tug open the heavy iced-over door and climb up into the cab; as soon as I close myself in, all windows glazed in ice, I have the strangest feeling that I’ve been here before.
