Yeah, and she was fun.

I looked down at this freckle-faced girl, who couldn’t be more than 5 foot one and 110 pounds, with a pixie smile and lean shoulders, wondering why she’d said hi to one of the old guys.

“So,” I said, “are you Kathy Abrams, from calculus class?”

“Ha ha,” she replied. “I’m obviously Mrs. Gradgrind, the school grammarian who often disciplined you for your transgressions.”

Jolted, I smiled. It had been years since I’d been flirted upon by someone out of my league,

“Of course, the Gradgrind Dickensian vibe is so obvious from your transparent skin and perfect teeth.”

“I’m sensing some cis-normative faux compliments?”

“Yes. We meet, and I’m obviously motivated to undercutting all that you hold sacred.”

“Someone told me your name is Mr. Forrest.”

“Who would say that? My high school buddies don’t use my last name.”

“Let’s go on a tour. How big is this property?”

“10 acres. More? It’s big.”

“Show me around.”

Again, not usual. Why, I thought?