It was early morning, the caffeine was just starting to work, and he thought about sex. A memory of a certain young woman from years before came to him, what she looked like, though not her name. Her recalled her short plumpness (but not fat), her Indian dark skin and her sultry looks. Or should he say smoldering brown eyes, telling of her confidence with men already. He had seen that confidence at a few parties, when she made her way, at ease, through crowded rooms, a lazy smile on her face.

He remembered she had the nicest ass in jeans he had seen in months, one of those rear ends that held his attention, and he had never been one to stare. She seemed to like him, and always had a warm smile for him when they met; yet perhaps she made most men feel as if they were special; that was her charm. She certainly hadn't limited herself to one boyfriend, if he went by the stories he heard at the time.

But what was her name? Nichole? Jennifer? Danielle? He just couldn't recall that. It was always that shapely yet firm ass and the smooth, dark skinned face that came to him, even now. That and the assured way she had of carrying herself, that consciousness of her sexual power.

At the time, he had felt that power in the many fantasies she inspired throughout his days, at work, school or at home. After seeing her at one party or another (they were college days after all) he would think about his earth-colored Indian girl, seeing her naked, or scantily clad in a variety of "outfits" (even a black leather dominatrix get-up) and in various scenarios, for days after. These fantasies did nothing to keep up his strength; they kept him at their mercy, helpless at the titillation they offered, and the eventual, though brief, satisfaction. Sometimes, there were whole days devoted to that self-satisfaction, or what seemed like it anyway. At the end of days like this, he had always felt a sense of guilt at giving himself over completely to his desires. And she was that rare woman whom he found it hard (no pun intended) to get out of mind: that engaging smile, the heated sensuality and sexual boldness. Yet a woman you didn't want mad at you. He had seen that angry spark flare in those dark eyes when some drunken fool had been a little too forward with her or become a nuisance. A cutting look that made victims of men as effectively as the smile.

He recalled drawing a look of annoyance himself one night when he offered to take her for a ride in his car - ostensibly, a ride home. But she had seen through that (How many times had she seen something similar?) and his whole drunken approach. He had become tiresome for her, at the mercy of his emotions, and felt a fool because of it. It put a damper on the rest of his night.

He laughed at the thought of it now, at his clumsy attempts to flirt with her, his vulnerability to her charms, his failure with words (a writer, no less!). Yet she had given him some signs or signals - something said or a facial expression - that led him on, and it happened on more than one occasion.

He had heard stories at parties, from guys who had been in the sack with her, about what a wild lay she was, how loud and passionate she became. One man said he thought she was going to wake the rest of the house when he'd had his turn with her, and the guy laughed as he spoke of it.

Yet he never got to that point with her. There were moments when he sensed potential after a pleasant exchange, and not as if he had just gone through the motions with her; something in a look or a laugh that went beyond the average small talk. These moments kept him interested, but less so as time went on. One thing that did puzzle him, he remembered, was that she never seemed to have a steady boyfriend. She usually arrived at parties in the company of her girlfriends, and she flirted with just about every guy who stepped in front of her. She had the reputation of a party girl, someone you could count on seeing wherever the beer kegs were. She knew most of the local musicians, and could tell you the latest scoop on different bands; in the know, as they say. Yet she wasn't unique in that; there were plenty of party girls and groupies in the crowd he hung around with. In fact, they were as common as guitars, joints, beer bottles, long hair and tie-dye shirts at the time.

On the one night she did accept a ride home from him, they were both "wasted" on drink and weed. It was about four in the morning and they stopped at an all-night supermarket. Both of them wanted some food, and they bought sandwiches. He remembered the two of them sitting in his little wagon, wolfing down their sandwiches and chips.

He had some beer in a cooler, but she was tired and wanted only her bed. Her curly hair hung over her red eyes and she had spilled food in her lap. He knew, looking at her, that it was too late for a wild time in bed that night. Besides, she lived with her parents, so there was no chance of coming in with her to crash. It didn't seem to matter much at the time, as there was another party coming up the next weekend. There would be plenty of parties, it seemed. That was part of the lifestyle.

Yet he never did get to be alone with her again; in fact, he lost track of her shortly thereafter. He figured she had taken up with another set of friends, something she was fully capable of. She could adapt easily, winging it with her looks.

He tried to imagine what she looked like now, what kind of career she had chosen, or if she had settled into family life. No doubt she had put on some weight (Hadn't they all?) and perhaps had some kids. He pictured himself running into her at a local supermarket, pushing a basket of groceries, a couple of her kids with her, almost in their teens now. He might not recognize her right away, but something about the warm brown eyes and the curly hair around the round face would cause him to look again. And then the smile would get him, like it always had.

One of those potential experiences that had never come about, he thought, as he fixed a second cup of coffee. A slight regret for a moment or two, but he quickly shut that off, for it could lead to similar memories, the disappointment of hindsight.