Imagine me singing that. Not well, more like a fog horn than a melody, but singing nonetheless.
I went out for St Patty's Day and had a beer, then another. I also had a whiskey and water, and then a few more beers. I definitely drank more than I typically do, and likely more than I should.
I was out with some friends, having a good time and, of course, 10:30p rolls around and we all start moving to the door. Because we're old. Further evidence of my Q-tipness (old people --> white hair --> Q-tip) was the fact that I chose to hit the head before heading home. Two very kind friends waited for me while I went to the bathroom.
Then, there I am, in the bathroom line at a hipster dive bar (that I kind of love). This sloppy, drunk, but clean and attractive girl stumbles by and plops down on a bench next to the bathroom line, that appears to be more decoration than furniture. I stood there wondering whether I should judge her when a TDH (tall, dark, handsome) strolls by. She grabs his hand and pulls him onto the bench. (Okay, it's furniture, or else that shit would have collapsed.) Then, realization enters my noggin - it's Hot Neighbor!
Or at least I think it is. I go into the bathroom, come out, and he's still there. I try not to stare, I think it's him.
I go back to my friends, relay the news, and receive encouragement to talk to him. Fueled by the booze, I turn around and head again for the bathroom, wondering how I'm going to talk to him while he's sharing a questionable bench with that chick... I see him at the bar on my way and stop. This is how my slightly fuzzy, boozy brain remembers the conversation:
Me: Hi. I think you're my neighbor.
Him: 3rd floor?
Me: No.
Him: 1212 Main Street?
Me: No, 1211 Main Street.
Him: Oh! You have a dog!
Me: Yes, I do.
Sidenote: He's hot, likely with girls all over the hood wondering if they should talk to him. He is probably a player, but whatever, he's a crush. Back to the conversation:
Him: I've been wanting to talk to you, but you never stop.
Me: I know, me too, but I stopped now. I'm Betti.
Him: I'm Andrew.
Me: Nice to meet you, Andrew. I always see you at random times, do you work a lot of hours, like me?
Him: Well, I work 80 hours a week.
Me: Me too, sometimes... what do you do that creates hours like that?
Him: I'm an attorney and I founded a non-profit, that advocates on behalf of children with disabilities.
Me: (awkwardly staring) If I'm looking at you skeptically, it's because you're perfect.
Yes, kids, I said that. Don't give Betti a beer.
Him: Well, the next time you see me while you're walking your dog you should stop and talk to me.
Me: I should, but I don't want to wait that long, who knows the next time we may see each other.
Him: Haha, maybe we should go out.
Me: Maybe we should.
Him: Would you go out with me?
Me: I would.
Him: Will you go on a date with me?
Me: Yes.
He reaches into his pocket and I say...
Me: Oh, ugh, are you giving me your card?
Him: No, I don't have a card.
Me: Me neither.
Him: Why don't you give me your number.
Me: I can put it in your phone or go old school with a napkin.
Him: Old school.
I gave him my number on a napkin, chatted with his friends about some of the people in the neighborhood and left. That was Thursday. He texted me on Friday (quick, right?) and asked me if I'd like to go out. I wrote back that day and haven't heard anything. Will anything come of it? Who knows, probably not. Don't get me wrong, I really hope it does, but this man is hot (like HOT, hot) and probably has a girl for every night of the week. I am not interested in anything like that.
Do I want to go out with him? Yes. Do I want him to surprise me and sweep me off my feet? Heck yes. But this isn't the movies, it's real life, and the good guys - the ones who follow through - are hard to find.
