I found this little beauty in my archives, and it just made me want to do something shiny and sparkly like this again. Or at least post this story again.
(Which isn’t really the same thing. At all.)
* * *
“I think you should say something to that guy,” she whispered.
We had already traded seats so I could have an unobstructed view of him. She had said, “You’ve got to see this guy. No ring on his finger, so we’re good. I’m going to go get some water. Slide into my seat.”
She’s my married friend who instigates her single friends to do bold, courageous acts in the dating world. She paints the scene, invites us to step into it, and prides herself as a Wing Girl.
Most of her friends are embarrassed when she writes a phone number on the restaurant receipt. Most of them bawk at her suggestions.
Not this girl. I’ll follow through with your great idea, especially if there’s a memory at stake, a positive outcome on the line, or a dollar on the table. If it might add a little plot to this story, then probably don’t dare me if it will embarrass you when I follow through.
“Sure, I’ll say something.”
“You will?!” She barely knew what to do with my cooperation.
“I totally will. Go stand by the door, because when I’m ready to go, I’m really going to be ready to go.” She was giddy with anticipation; I was blazing with courage.
Baseball cap. Five o’clock shadow. Attractively intelligent in his gray t-shirt and distressed jeans. His fingers clicked away on his Mac, as if that isn’t music to my ears.
“Excuse me, sir? Can I say something before I go?”
(Add ‘dark eyes’ and ‘long lashes’ to the above list.)
(Add ‘great smile.’ The list continues.)
I stood on the other side of his table and gently leaned in. “I just wanted to tell you that you are incredibly good looking.”
(Great smile again.) “Well, thank you. That just made my whole month.”
“You’re welcome. I just thought you should know.”
I tap the table in farewell, and I head on out the door of this chic, hipster coffee shop. Wing Girl is biting her nails, clapping her hands, and bouncing, but she pulls it together and we stroll to the car. Casually. Like I do this all the time.
With the doors closed, she squeals. “I can’t believe you did it! You did it!”
“I totally did. And I might not be done… let me think.” I didn’t have a business card with me, but I had a plethora of 3×5 cards. Naturally. With my girly script, I wrote:
I walked back in with the hipsters, straight to his table. I slid the card under the corner of his laptop. Eye contact. Smile.
“I just wanted to make your month one more time.”
Tap the table in farewell. Out I go. Finished this time.
For real, they should bottle that boost of confidence and sell it on eBay. Because there’s nothing like it in the world. I could have tap danced to the moon and back.