I was at my job at Blockbuster Video, asking, “Would you like a second, free rental with that?” or “Have you heard about our new Movie Pass program?” when a man dressed in an expensive white suit walked up to the counter-side and leaned over.

“Excuse me? Where are your foreign films?”

Normally, I would let someone interrupting me know just how I felt at being interrupted. Not this man. “Foreign films?” I asked stupidly.

“Yes. You have foreign films, don’t you?”

I nodded dumbly.

He asked quietly, “Shall I start over, Darlene?”

The man was in his mid-thirties, tall and athletically built, graceful in his movements. His eyes were a beautiful brown, and he had Brad Pitt’s lips. His chin and cheekbones belonged to George Clooney. A rich and powerful man, I thought, perfect in his dress. I was making a fool of myself.

“Uh, no,” I muttered, feeling my face redden. I pointed to the back of the store, where the foreign films were shelved. “They’re back there,” I said, making my embarrassment worse.

“Thank you, Darlene,” he said and headed in the pointed-to direction. Like a moron, I looked down at my name tag on my chest. My mouth was open. I closed it.

I finished waiting on my now-irritated customer, checked out the next man in line, all the while eying the rear of the store. I couldn’t see the man, wasn’t sure that was a bad thing. When things grew difficult with a lady with two small kids and four overdue films, I temporarily forgot him. When I looked up again, Mr. Perfect was next in line. My heart stuttered.

“Hi,” I said, trying not to choke. “Find everything you wanted?”

“Actually, no,” he said. “But this will do.” He held out a movie called Red.

“I read that,” I said, hoping to recapture my wit. Then I said, “It was like a sequel or something,” flattening myself again.

Mr. Perfect grinned. “Part three of a trilogy, actually. Did you enjoy it?”

“Of course,” I lied. Even with subtitles, I hadn’t understood a word.

I scanned his card into the computer and read his name: David Chaguris. He lived in the Hills.

“As far as I’m concerned,” he said, “it’s the best thing Kieslowski’s done. Certainly of the three. Don’t you agree?”

“Of course,” I chirped again. Inside, I wanted to cry.

For a time, the man held my eyes, and then he unexpectedly said: “I see you’re not married.”

I stared stupidly at my hand. I nodded.

“Is that a no?” he asked.

I nodded again.

“It’s okay to speak,” he said. “We’re not in a library.”

My face could have ignited a forest fire. Then he floored me completely. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight, Darlene?”

“Dinner?”

Behind the man, the next customer in line looked quite amused. You are so unprepared for this, I thought, looking at my fingernails. “I would love dinner,” I said softly. “When were you thinking of?”

“What time do you get off?”

I stammered, “S-six o’clock. But I’d have to go home. I wore this to work.”

He shook his head. “You don’t have to go anywhere. My treat. Ever been to Reynoldo’s?”

I looked at the floor, making sure I hadn’t fallen down. Reynoldo’s is the most exclusive boutique in Los Angeles. I’ve looked in the windows once or twice, but had never been in. I didn’t know anyone who had been in.

Suddenly, I asked: “This is a joke, right? My Uncle Henry put you up to this.”

My folks had died when I was fifteen years old. I lived with my Uncle Henry in West Hollywood. West Hollywood is the mobile home park of L.A.

The man (it was a while before I could consider him Mr. Chaguris, much less David) only smiled at me. “I’ll be in the parking lot at six o’clock. A white Mercedes-Benz. Will you be there, Darlene?”

I nodded and said, “Of course.”

“If you leave me hanging, I’ll be really upset.”

“I’ll be there,” I promised.

“Six o’clock then, sharp.”

His smooth manner, his off-putting smile, his absolute confidence in that smile meant this man demanded something like obedience from a woman. I understood that. I also understood that he would get it from me.

At six o’clock, I hurried out of the building--I practically ran--and amongst the chunks of gravel that were Fords, Chevys, and Dodge pick-up trucks, his Mercedes stood out like a white diamond. I crossed the parking lot thinking,” It’s not him. No way it’s him,” until he got out of the car.

“Right on time,” he said. “Very good.” He opened the passenger-side door for me. I felt like a fairy princess.

“Thank you,” I said.

After having me belt in and then shutting the door, he came around to his side of the car and got in. As he drove off the lot, he said: “In answer to your question, Darlene, no, I was not setting you up. I just stopped by for a movie. The Blockbuster I frequent was too far away, it was late, and traffic was jammed. You were convenient, and there you were. End of story.”

“I still don’t believe it,” I said, mentally pinching my cheek. “What possibly could you see in me?”

He smiled. “You’re perfectly built and perfectly beautiful. Is that enough?”

Laughing, I said, “I am not beautiful, and I’m not even that pretty. And as for built--” I looked down at my unflattering blue uniform. When I looked up again, his eyes were surprisingly playful.

“Do I detect false modesty here?”

I laughed. “Nothing false here at all.”

“Then grant me my opinion. I can call anyone beautiful that I wish.”

I grinned, wondering if I should be stung.

After pulling into Reynoldo’s parking lot, David got out and opened my door. I looked at the expensive marble fascia of the store; I looked at the expensive clothes in the windows. I looked at the expensive women going in and out. “I can’t go in there,” I said.

“Why not?”

I exploded in frustration. “Look at how I’m dressed, David!”

He said, “Would you rather wear your skin?”

I blinked, unsure of what he meant.

He repeated himself: “Would you rather wear your skin?”

I gulped. My face grew very hot. “Are those my options?” I asked.

“They are.”

I said, “I don’t even know you.”

He took my right hand and placed it palm-in against his crotch. “You’ll know me very well before the evening is over, Darlene. Now please, let’s go in.”

I accompanied him into the store.

People stared at me. I felt like a white woman in Harlem. A white woman in a Cadillac.