raspberry red

A good memory and a tongue tied in the middle is a combination which gives immortality to conversation.
--Mark Twain

If Mr. Clemens' pronouncement is true, then I am destined to be remembered forever.

A customer appeared in front of me at the café yesterday, materializing out of a long line of faceless people. I felt instant and inexplicable attraction, so of course I just stood there, silent except to read his purchase total. My mind screamed, "Say something!" but came up a blank. He wore an interesting green t-shirt that I could have asked about, but instead I chose just to blush furiously. I don't even think I looked him in the eye, let alone smiled.

When he left, I finally snapped out of it. I turned to one of my co-workers and said, "Wow. I thought that guy was so cute, and I didn't say a single word to him." I find my behavior especially mystifying since, generally speaking, I can talk to anyone. On Saturday, in fact, I chatted up a fellow Red Sox fan for 10 minutes while his girlfriend glared on. And I inevitably end up flirting with the guy who has stopped by for a wedding cake tasting. I thought, "Why couldn't green shirt have come in earlier, when Jen and I were reading aloud from her Sextrology book?" (Which book, by the way, is shockingly accurate. Check it out, people!) At least then I would have made some sort of impression.

"Do you want me to go get him back for you?" Greg offers. "Yeah, sure. That sounds like a perfect solution," I reply, turning back to the line of customers. (Readers, in case my word choice doesn't make this clear, I employed a sarcastic tone.)

Five minutes later I look up to see green shirt standing in front of me with Greg by his side. "Did I forget to pay for something?" he asks.

"Oh my G-d" is all that I can manage. My eyes are wide with shock, and I am likely the color of the fruit on the Red, White & Blue tart on the counter in front of me.

Open-mouthed, I turn to Greg. "I can't believe you did this." Greg shrugs and backs away. Green shirt extends his hand. "I'm Mike." I think I shake his hand; I am pretty sure that I don't give him my name in return. The man who is next in line begins to shift impatiently. Green shirt smiles. "I live right around the corner. I'll be back in again."

And with that, he leaves. Strike two for sopheathene.

My male co-workers spend the rest of the evening (1) restraining me from killing Greg and (2) assuring me that guys find that sort of thing flattering, but I figure green shirt's interest would be considerably more piqued if I had actually managed to talk to him instead of seeming to have sent an emissary, as if I'm in high school.

Green shirt, if you are out there, I can be a scintillating conversationalist. And that's just the beginning of my charms! I promise!

Sigh.