Jim Conners stood before the mirror in a plainly furnished, somewhat shabby, room. He was freshly showered and had taken the time to shave carefully. He had on his best suit and although several years old, it was clean and just pressed. It was Valentine's Day and he had a dinner date later on. Jim had a beautiful single red rose bud for Denise, his date for the evening.

Jim looked at himself in the mirror: a lean and angular face, eyes just a trifle bloodshot, black hair that was closely cropped, but softened by a salt and pepper, neatly trimmed beard. His skin was weathered from the outdoors and his hands testified to a life of hard work. He was a man who could be anywhere from 40 to 60 and his face showed a few ravages of time. But he stood erectly on his 6' 2" frame, his body still lean and well muscled at 170 pounds.

He was a little nervous for it was their first date. He hoped she would like his choice of restaurants. They were to meet at the Rendezvous, an upscale continental restaurant just off DuPont Circle in the Nation's capital. Jim had made a special arrangement with the chef-owner, Dominic D'Erno, for an intimate table for two.

Damn, he thought to himself, sure could use a little nip to steady my nerves. Been a long time since I went out with a pretty woman like Denise. But I want to make a good impression, he thought not without irony, and decided to forgo the drink.

It was about time to leave, he figured, knowing it was a good 20 minute walk and he didn't want to hurry and get all sweaty. He left the 3rd Street Homeless Shelter around 8:30 pm.

Denise Bailey carefully applied her makeup and thought about the evening ahead. She was going out to dinner on a Valentine Day's date! It was her first date ever in 37 years of a not-so-easy life. She still had her good looks but the edges were getting a little frayed.

Oh God, she thought, here I am all nervous and fluttery about going out with a man. She had known many men, of course, but none had ever asked her out on a real date. What will we talk about, she wondered, I'm not much one for making social chit chat. Most of my conversations with men have consisted of one syllable words she thought ruefully.

Denise looked at herself critically: firm upright breasts, a generously proportioned bod that went well with her 5' 6" frame. Maybe she could lose a few pounds here and there, but the soft flesh served also to hide the scar from a Caesarian that she had had years ago. Her brown eyes were large and lustrous, but they flickered with fear when she was stressed. Her blond hair was fashionably sculpted, its lacquered surface held tightly in place.

She spoke with a sultry purr, not unlike the voice of Peggy Lee. And like that singer she could do a credible version of "Fever." While Denise always presented a brassy exterior, confident and assertive, just below the surface there hid a frightened little girl.

Denise had obtained from the National Cathedral's thrift shop a high-necked long-sleeved white silk blouse to hide the needle marks on her arm, and a black velvet ankle length skirt, slit up the side to mid-thigh. She couldn't help but laugh every time she visited the thrift shop. They had beautiful clothing, many pieces worn only once or twice, at unbelievable prices. The only problem was that there were too many customers-most of them old biddies with diamonds the size of rocks on their fingers-competing for the merchandise.

Denise's strategy was simple but effective. She'd dress in her working outfit and flounce into the store, bumping against several customers, "Hey sweetie, how you doin?" she would say amiably, chewing and popping her bubble gum loudly. In no time at all the blue noses would sorm out in a huff, leaving the store and its merchandise to Denise.

Jim was lost in thought on his walk to the restaurant. He was not given to introspection but did wonder now and then why it was his lot to live the way he had. Jim grew up in Appalachia. He never saw his Pa much, except when he came home drunk and beat the hell out of his mom and brothers. Jim never did make it beyond the eighth grade. By the time he was 14 his mom had died in childbirth after bearing eight kids and Pa was nowhere to be found.

Jim would have been placed in foster homes like his brothers and sisters, so he took off and had been on his own ever since. He had picked up some skills along the road and he was a decent enough rough carpenter, a painter and could hang dry wall. It was an itinerant's life-lots of carousing and drinking. He had been in the shelter, here in DC, for about 6 months. He picked up a job now and then and when he was short of cash would sell some of his blood to the Red Cross. Jim would be the first to deny it, but he was a very lonely man.

He had first met Denise when they were picking over a dumpster for something that could be converted to cash. They nodded in a friendly sort of way, and every now and then he would see her and exchange a few words. They weren't exactly buddies, but between them they sensed a common bond of two lost souls, imprisoned by the darkness of despair, reaching out for succor. On the spur of the moment Jim had asked Denise out to dinner-without realizing it was Valentine's Day. They were both surprised when she accepted.

Denise lived not far from the restaurant, but had to walk through a dangerous neighborhood where muggings and robberies were routine. She walked quickly and with no nonsense, her hand always close to the container of Mace.

Somehow getting dressed for a date triggered all sorts of childhood memories. She never knew her birth mother, because Denise was left at Georgetown Visitation as a foundling. The Sisters there were not able to care for an infant, so Denise was raised in a succession of foster homes and institutions. She was a spirited girl and quick to rebel at the hands of authority. A short term at the Juvenile Detention Center only exacerbated her rebellious nature.

She was soon on the streets on her own. An occasional waitress job, a little hustling, a brief experiment with hard narcotics, a trick now and then when she was really desperate, made for a lonely life, always on the alert, always watching her back. She was chronically short of money and when she couldn't pay her rent she sometimes spent the evening huddled over a hot air vent on the city sidewalks. She made few friends. Oh God, she would scream to herself,I am so lonely. What am I to do?

They met at the back door entrance to the Rendezvous.

"Hey Denise, you look right pretty tonight," Jim greeted her feeling a little awkward.

"Well, I do thank you sir," Denise said demurely equally unsure of herself and not comfortable with the formality of a date.

"Don't know about you, but I could eat a horse," Jim pronounced and led the way in without ceremony. "Oh, by the way, I got this here rose for you," pushing the bud vase abruptly at her and inadvertently brushing her breasts. They both reddened slightly at the contact and energy seemed to radiate between them.

Jim had worked mighty hard the day before at the restaurant cleaning the kitchen, its heavy duty burners, and tiled floors to earn the price of tonight's dinner. He had worked several times at Dominic's place and did a thorough job. They had arrived when the rush of the evening's business had peaked and were seated in a small alcove in the kitchen. Jim was a little disappointed because he had expected to be seated in the main dining room.

At first the frugal owner was going to serve the couple items from the menu that did not sell well but one look at the couple and his romantic instincts took over. Besides, he had grown up in the seaport of Marseilles, and knew what it was like to be hungry and down and out. He decided to give them the best of that evening's offerings. With a flourish, he proffered them the Valentine's Day menu:

Lobster Bisque

Watercress, endive and mandarin orange salad

Chateaubriand Bearnaise

Asparagus, Leek and Potato Puree.

Sorbet

Chocoloate covered strawberries, Champagne

What a show it was! Without knowing it they had the best table in the house, usually reserved for the chef-owner's best friends. Sous chefs flamb�ed dishes with expensive cognacs. (Jim couldn't get over wasting good booze like that); the freshest greens were dressed and tossed expertly; and the pastry chef's confections were works of art. Waiters shouted their orders and picked up dishes for presentation. Dominic was everywhere: touching up dishes, tasting the broth and sauces, and approving most but sending back other dishes that did not meet his standard. It was organized mayhem.

Denise and Jim didn't have too much to say. They were famished and the on-going floor show captured their attention completely. Dominic did wince, though, when Jim downed his first glass of vintage wine in a single gulp. Jim didn't mind when the owner instructed him kindly about wine tasting. But later Jim confided to Denise, "You know Dee, that fancy wine sure don't have much taste or punch to it. Taste like water it does. I like a wine that hits your throat and belly with some bite and a little heat to it."

A different wine with each course, rich cream and butter from Normandy, exquisite sauces, and aged beef were more than they had ever experienced. But the Belgian chocolate-covered strawberries, infused with an assortment of cordials, and Dom Perignon champagne left the couple gasping for air.

"Hey Jim Bo," Denise waved in the general direction of her dining companion, "I need some air or else." By this time Jim Bo's complexion was a little green around the gills too.

"Hey, Dominic," Jim called out to their host, "That sure was mighty good grub you fixed up for us, but we gotta go now."

Dominic winced at Jim's choice of words, but he responded with a gracious smile, "Bon soir, mes enfants. Sleep well," he winked.

The couple made it safely outdoors and the bracing fresh air steadied them a little. They desperately needed sleep but their respective shelters were too far a walk to manage in their condition.

"Uh Denise, I brought along my sleeping bag and got it stashed here. I know of a warm grate close by here. If you don't mind, we could sleep together to keep warm. Don't you worry, we'll be safe as long as I'm with you." Jim was a little nervous and his speech was pretty slurred, but Denise got the drift.

"Sure thing Old Jim," she purred, "show me the way. I figure your grate will be just great with me."

So Jim retrieved his stuff and in no time they were zippered up in an oversize sleeping bag over a hot air grate, just off Connecticut Avenue.

Denise spoke first: "Hey old man, tell me about yourself. You seem to be an OK gent," she whispered gently. Well, that let loose a torrent of words and feelings that Jim had buried deep. When it was her turn, Denise told her story in the way that strangers exchange intimacies on an airline flight, knowing that they were not likely to meet again. Jim and Denise shared a few laughs and more than just a few tears. They slept that night, like a couple of innocent kids huddled together for warmth, comfort and mutual protection against a hostile world.

It was still dark out and dawn more than an hour away when they woke. Jim was first out--he dug around and lit a can of sterno to boil water for their instant coffee. They were quiet as each struggled with their own thoughts about what had been said that night. Jim didn't know exactly how to express his thoughts. What do I say? I like this lady a lot, but I don't know ... I'm kinda unsure about this whole thing between us.

Denise, sipping her coffee, was thinking too. This is a kind and gentle man. I've never known anyone like him before. He coulda had me and it would've been nice too. I would like to see this man again, but then... I just don't know.

Jim packed up his things. Without making eye contact, he said, "Well, it's about time I headed back to the shelter. Sure did have a nice evening with you Denise." What am I saying, don't be a jackass and leave like this. It's now or never, make up your mind.

Denise was equally casual. "Sure thing, Jim. And thanks a lot for the dinner. See you around sometime?" Stupid woman, you got a good man here. Don't throw away your last chance for a decent life.

They turned and went their separate ways.

� Rich ([email protected])