I saw her from across the library. Beautiful face, sophisticated look. Elegant. Slim, but with the curves that I liked: from the waist and up, from the hips and down. Young, but there was something about the way she held herself that made me think: she's got stories to tell.
I approached. "Hi."
She looked up from her book, her eyes still focused on something else. Or someone else?
"I wondered if you wanted to go out sometime," I said.
She waited, just long enough to make me think she hadn't heard me.
"I'll think about it," she said.
I told her my email address. It was the kind of email address that you could say, and she'd remember it, but even then I stuttered a little in the telling of it.
She nodded. I wandered back into the flow of my life, still intoxicated.
Days passed. Weeks. I lost my job, found a new one. Months. I moved house. My brother had a kid. I shaved off my beard, then grew it back after complaints. Every few days, I found myself dreaming about her, wondering what she was doing.
I was having a cup of coffee on a sunny day, with friends, when I saw her again. I mistook her approach for the waitress. I looked up to ask for a refill, and there she was. Still elegant. Still beautiful. Still looking half at me, half into the distance.
I stood.
"Hi," I said.
Her eyes moved. From the waist and up, from the hips and down.
"No," she said.
She walked away.
I must have stood and stared after her for a long time, because my friends said:
"Hey... it's okay."
And, "There'll be others."
And, "We'll take you out tonight. Have some drinks. Who knows what could happen?"
They were right. But, still.
I wanted to be one of her stories.
I approached. "Hi."
She looked up from her book, her eyes still focused on something else. Or someone else?
"I wondered if you wanted to go out sometime," I said.
She waited, just long enough to make me think she hadn't heard me.
"I'll think about it," she said.
I told her my email address. It was the kind of email address that you could say, and she'd remember it, but even then I stuttered a little in the telling of it.
She nodded. I wandered back into the flow of my life, still intoxicated.
Days passed. Weeks. I lost my job, found a new one. Months. I moved house. My brother had a kid. I shaved off my beard, then grew it back after complaints. Every few days, I found myself dreaming about her, wondering what she was doing.
I was having a cup of coffee on a sunny day, with friends, when I saw her again. I mistook her approach for the waitress. I looked up to ask for a refill, and there she was. Still elegant. Still beautiful. Still looking half at me, half into the distance.
I stood.
"Hi," I said.
Her eyes moved. From the waist and up, from the hips and down.
"No," she said.
She walked away.
I must have stood and stared after her for a long time, because my friends said:
"Hey... it's okay."
And, "There'll be others."
And, "We'll take you out tonight. Have some drinks. Who knows what could happen?"
They were right. But, still.
I wanted to be one of her stories.