I never considered myself a Ladies Man; as a matter of fact, I always fancied a James Dean of sorts; the rebel without a cause - living for the moment. The thought was romantic, it had its noir, it had its rewards; Nothing more invigorating than the unknown.

Inflating my own ego was something I was spectacular at. In retrospect, I was a lonely child, possessing nothing and wanting everything, but at the time I thought I was a diamond in the coal mine; and I'd oftentimes spin my tales of wonderment and wanderings into an epic that could keep a crowds attention for the duration of a camp fire.

I don't remember what I was talking about that day, but I remember seeing her. Somebody once told me that beauty was in the eye of the beholder; and surely every guy in the room wanted to behold her. She was listening attentively, yet passively, to one of my tales - I glanced over to her and our eyes met.

I wanted to know her name.

I wrapped up my story and excused myself from the crowd - and made my way around to her. I asked her for her name first, and then I started talking to her. Amazingly enough, she found my interesting - and I found her blissfully pleasant.

She wanted to hear more.

I fed her desire with a few other stories I had in my stock - I told her about my history, where I came from. I asked her a few questions, but the conversation was mostly about me.

The conversation went on for a while, just talking and laughing - we laughed, when the music blared, we danced.

I asked her if she wanted to get together sometime, and she said she'd love to. We exchanged numbers and we went our separate ways.

Her name was Ginger, and she made an impression.