We had an unrequited meet cute. He saw me in a crowded bar. I noticed his likeable face. Our eyes never met. I leave after an hour, afraid of new humans. He feels regret.
We see each other again at a different bar. This time, we both know that it is a setup, the kind that is driven by a mixture of his regret and optimism. He thinks that he made a mistake in his initial hesitation, should have talked to me earlier, should have just grabbed the first opportunity, life is too short for hesitations. It seems to be just long enough for slogany life-hack clichés.
I try to leave. Again, I am afraid of human interaction. Our mutual friend, poor girl, had to orchestrate another elaborate get-together just to get us together, and she is not having this, hell fucking no. She secretly loves this. Theatrically exasperated, she drags me to where he is talking to a guy, introduces us all, and leaves, trading me for his friend.
We smile. It is uncomfortable.
He is a finance guy. I have no idea what that means. This is true for me and funny to him. We talk more. He tells me that he knows my occupation. I express dread at seeing that well-intentioned sympathy that collapses the faces of strangers when they know that I teach public school. He adjusts his face. I like that. I like his face.
He likes my jokes. I think that he might also like my boobs. We both seem to like to talk a lot. He is kind, optimistic, and driven. It becomes easier to meet his eyes, and we are laughing a lot.
His family is wealthy. Mine is rich. We went to private school. He went for high school; i went for primary. After a while, we stop exchanging information and begin to explore each other through proxies like television and books. He is excited that I am currently reading historical nonfiction about the father of Alexandre Dumas, and he loves The Count of Monte Cristo. I am excited that he adores Game of Thrones, and he wants to help me like it. Dragons! We both like some other common things.
At this point, drunk acquaintance belchily informs us that we have been talking for too long. There are other people, you know, get a room. Neither of us has a witty riposte, so we just look at each other and smile without showing teeth. Shambolic drunk relieves us of his presence; my social neuroses assert themselves. It is time to flee. We exchange information. He asks if he can call me right away, if that would not be too desperate.
I want to tell him that I like his face, and that I am, for the first time in years, super-giggly about a boy.
Instead, I tell him that it is not desperate, and I would love to talk or hang out again. We make a date for the end of the week.
I have all the giggles in the car. I do not want to go to work; instead, I would like to draw hearts around our names in my notebook. I settle for Google-stalking him. My face cannot stop smiling.
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