I just had to meet this woman

 She was picture perfect from a movie script. Blonde. Alone. In a dress. Sitting outside in one of a string of outdoor seating areas splashed along South Miami Beach's Espanola Way.
The night air was inviting. I was walking alone, my friends otherwise occupied. Nothing to do.
I stopped, too quickly, looking at her to abruptly. Then, casually, as if everyone on the semi crowded street were watching, I nonchalantly eased away from my female subject, browsing the area with my eyes as if looking for a lost friend.
 Convinced I wasn't being detected, I walked casually past my subject. She had a sadness in her eyes. Probably Russian or Ukrainian, trying to find her niche on the selfish southeast tip of America adrench in tourism.
A second pass, a "should I or shouldn't I" conversation to myself...
My feet were heading in her direction, my heart pounding with each step. Hurry before I chicken out.
"Where are you from?" (My famous opening line. Not smooth, per se, but sincere.)
The sad eyes focus on me. Her wine glass is nearly empty.
"Russia."
Bingo!
I settle in with my best Russian greeting, explaining to the stranger I am indeed visiting a Russian friend here in Miami Beach. Which, of course, I am.
She invites me to the sit, but not at her table. Her large handbag occupies the seat across from her. I perch awkwardly at the next table, leaning toward her as we exchange information.
A waiter appears; I order a glass of wine to match hers. She offers me the option to move to her table. I pick up her bag, but she will not allow the precious brown leather pouch to touch the ground. I move the bag and the chair to her side and drag my chair to her table. All is again well.
She gives me flat, undecided replies to my banter. Her eyes don't mask her suspicion; nor do they betray her more than mild interest.
Her name is Olga. Typical Russian, she is under 30 and has already lost her life's compass.
Typical American, I'm well beyond 40 and still searching for mine.
My zeal and enthusiasm doesn't rub off; yet she fancies my company until my wine and hers are gone.
She provides the requested contact information and excuses herself, Eastern European style.
But I'm not finished.
I dash after her. She is already down the street, crossing an intersection when I find her again. It is nearly 11 p.m. and I am not comfortable with her being alone on the streets. That will be my rationale should she question my persistence in being near.
I am now ten feet away, walking abreast of her confident high heeled steps.
Her looks over. "What are you doing?"
"Walking."
(I figure honesty is as real as it gets!)
"Why are you following me?"
"Oh, I'm not following you. I'm walking with you."
She has no real reply ready and trudges on. We both realize she hasn't a clue where she is going.
"So, what are you doing?" I offer.
"Looking for a job."
"It's 11 p.m." I observe. "A little late?"
She sighs and keeps walking, looking in a bar as if she wants to enter, then backpeddling almost on top of my feet upon her sudden exit.
I do a graceful sidestep to avoid a collision.
"I'm American; I can help you get a job," I volunteer cheerily.
She continues to strut.
"At least, I know very good English; not so good on my Spanish, which seems the language of choice around here."
My blonde companion is unmoved.
"If you want me to leave, just say 'get out of here--- you're a creep and I don't ever want to see you again!' and I'm gone," I blurt.
She doesn't reply. This girl likes me!
We are back on Espanola Way. "What kind of job do you want?"
"Something like this one," she says, indicating an attractive girl hostessing at a restaurant.
I approach. "Hello, this is my friend from Olga from Russia. She is looking for work like yours. Do you know of any openings at your restaurant?"
The girl is more than pleasant and helpful with information. "Be persistent," she advises. "Keep coming back. Managers hire people on the spot for who show the most interest."
Our non-American friend doesn't quite understand. Perhaps she thinks filling out an application is the only requirement and that a boss will happily call her back.
Sigh.
We continue down the street, beyond the busyness and into the darkness.
"Why are you still here?" she demands, as if my usefulness had expired.
"Keeping you safe," I say, sincerely.
I make more small talk. She indicates her desire to stop by a department store. We enter. Since it's Christmas time, I go to the holiday section and return with a pair of reindeer antlers on my head. I extend a santa hat to my guest.
"Here," I say. "Put his on."
She declines. (No surprise there!)
"Ah," I say. "Here's the hat for you! (I give her a Bag Humbug Santa hat). Do you know what that means in English?"
She shakes her head.
"It means "Olga is a grouch! She is jaded and cantakerous!"
"What means jaded and cantakerous?"
"Look it up," I say.
Her hand held device translates the words.
"I am not!" She declares.
We are now in the candy isle.
"What kind of candy do you like?"
Olga likes Reeses.
I get the biggest, most expensive brick of Reeses peanut butter cups available. It costs over $13.
"I need your pen, Olga."
"Why?"
"So I can write to Olga from John on your gift," I say.
"You have to buy it first."
"Oh no, I need to write on it first."
"Why?"
"So the sales girl won't think it's for her."
It takes a lot more convincing that I'm willing to share here in this blog to get Olga to agree to letting me borrow her precious pen. But, after all, she realizes I am certainly trying to offer her a very decent gift, as far as gifts from strangers go.
We leave the store. I carry Olga's and my purchases in a bag.
Behold, she is staying at the same high rise I am staying at.
We neither one have a security card, so we approach the security guard together.
Olga gives her name and unit number. The guard gets ready to waive us both in, when Olga goes KGB on me.
"We're not together," she snaps, and walks off toward the gate to freedom.
"Olga! I have you gift right here in this bag," I say, pointing.
I look at the male guard. "Women," I whisper. "PMS. One little spat..."
He looks at me with sympathy. "I hear ya," he says, shaking his head. "Go on in."
Both inside, I glare at Olga.  "Way to throw me under the bus!"
She seems satisfied that she had put me through so much. I hand her the bag. She removes the Reeses and hands it to me.
"Oh no, that's for YOU. Remember, it says right here with your own pen's ink: To OLGA from JOHN."
She smiles politely. "Thank you."
She is at her door.
"So, I will see you tomorrow late morning?"
"I never said that."
"Call me!"
She waives and turns to her building.
"Paca," I say in Russian.
"Bye," she replies in English.

Women.