So I’m standing in a cleared parking lot on a breezy November evening grooving to one of the local amateur blues bands. Standing by myself as usual, toward the back of the crowd like a vagrant ready to flee at any spark of confrontation.
“Pretty sweet band huh?” she asks me. I turn my head to my left and there she, A McK, the fleeting angel. She was a hottie: thin, short brunette hair, petite figure, milky complexion, and one of those adorable little nose piercings the size of a small mole. This chic is looking directly at me. Holy shit! That question was directed at me!
“Pretty sweet indeed” as I respond with renewed enthusiasm.
“Hi, I’m Anthea.” And she extends the right hand for the customary physical salutation. I begrudgingly shrug my shoulder as my whole right arm slides up and down in one smooth sinusoidal movement like a Johnson rod off a flywheel.
The internal dialogue of doubt immediately fires up, ‘Oh great. She openly approached me with a smile and sudden introduction. She’s a young attractive lady approaching a young white male: the perfect setup to snatch some ignorant myrmidon with an easily-excitable phallus by his little toe like a bear trap under the asphalt. Here she goes. Here comes the pitch. She thinks she can wind out the heater and sink this poor superficial bastard like a fish in a barrel (to mix metaphors). Oh am I still inner monologuing? I should better get back to the action before she thinks I’m some eccentric loner freak.’
“Mike,” I respond with the usual bland etiquette directed at strangers.
“Hi, Mike. Are you from around here?” asks Anthea. Her tone sounded genuinely casual.
“Actually, I just moved down from DC a couple of weeks ago.”
“Oh, okay! So you haven’t realized how gut-wrenchingly boring this stupid little town can be,” she retorts with still more enthusiasm. She’s a local? She ain’t no salesman! She has a fucking drink in her hand, moron! She’s at a social function, and she explicitly walked over to my dark corner exploiting brass balls. There ain’t no uniform on that lithe little body of hers. She’s in for the kill! Or at least to innocently feed off new stimulus.
“Hey, living on the beach ain’t a bad deal.”
“Yeah, I just moved back to the area myself.”
“So where are you staying?” Yes, naive curiosity is key.
“Oh… uh… I’m switching off between my dad’s place in town and my mom’s place on Merritt Island until I get settled in.” She stuttered to answer that simple question. Did she just lie to me? Did she just manifest a ruse to convince me that she’s a frolicking single? And what’s this business about divorced parents? Shall I judge her now? I am, after all, an INTJ, and that constitutes an ability – nay, almost a superpower – of instant judgment. No, let’s give this nubile young lady an opportunity. And for Christ’s sake, maintain eye contact despite her black low-cut blouse!
So we continue for twenty minutes chatting over a variety of deeply meaningful topics such as religion, music, and surfing. She claims to have been drinking, but Anthea carries an energetic conversation like the average non-sorostitute college coed. This led to a situation where she would spontaneously blurt out a question or statement:
“Pretty sweet band huh?” she asks me. I turn my head to my left and there she, A McK, the fleeting angel. She was a hottie: thin, short brunette hair, petite figure, milky complexion, and one of those adorable little nose piercings the size of a small mole. This chic is looking directly at me. Holy shit! That question was directed at me!
“Pretty sweet indeed” as I respond with renewed enthusiasm.
“Hi, I’m Anthea.” And she extends the right hand for the customary physical salutation. I begrudgingly shrug my shoulder as my whole right arm slides up and down in one smooth sinusoidal movement like a Johnson rod off a flywheel.
The internal dialogue of doubt immediately fires up, ‘Oh great. She openly approached me with a smile and sudden introduction. She’s a young attractive lady approaching a young white male: the perfect setup to snatch some ignorant myrmidon with an easily-excitable phallus by his little toe like a bear trap under the asphalt. Here she goes. Here comes the pitch. She thinks she can wind out the heater and sink this poor superficial bastard like a fish in a barrel (to mix metaphors). Oh am I still inner monologuing? I should better get back to the action before she thinks I’m some eccentric loner freak.’
“Mike,” I respond with the usual bland etiquette directed at strangers.
“Hi, Mike. Are you from around here?” asks Anthea. Her tone sounded genuinely casual.
“Actually, I just moved down from DC a couple of weeks ago.”
“Oh, okay! So you haven’t realized how gut-wrenchingly boring this stupid little town can be,” she retorts with still more enthusiasm. She’s a local? She ain’t no salesman! She has a fucking drink in her hand, moron! She’s at a social function, and she explicitly walked over to my dark corner exploiting brass balls. There ain’t no uniform on that lithe little body of hers. She’s in for the kill! Or at least to innocently feed off new stimulus.
“Hey, living on the beach ain’t a bad deal.”
“Yeah, I just moved back to the area myself.”
“So where are you staying?” Yes, naive curiosity is key.
“Oh… uh… I’m switching off between my dad’s place in town and my mom’s place on Merritt Island until I get settled in.” She stuttered to answer that simple question. Did she just lie to me? Did she just manifest a ruse to convince me that she’s a frolicking single? And what’s this business about divorced parents? Shall I judge her now? I am, after all, an INTJ, and that constitutes an ability – nay, almost a superpower – of instant judgment. No, let’s give this nubile young lady an opportunity. And for Christ’s sake, maintain eye contact despite her black low-cut blouse!
So we continue for twenty minutes chatting over a variety of deeply meaningful topics such as religion, music, and surfing. She claims to have been drinking, but Anthea carries an energetic conversation like the average non-sorostitute college coed. This led to a situation where she would spontaneously blurt out a question or statement:
1. “I’m not into that whole organized religion thing. I don’t think there’s some all-powerful force watching over us.”
2. “I’m not into hip-hop. I’m more of an indie rock person.”
3. “Do you surf?”
4. “How about you go up there and cut some rug on the dance floor?” “No need. I’m doing an adequate job of making you laugh right here, my dear.”
5. “Are you a sarcastic person?” “Indeed, I keep it cynical.” “That’s good, because I consider myself an asshole.”
Not two days later I launched into a state of hysteria upon realizing this girl submerged to the proper level of depth to ignite a meaningful relationship. In fact, that was by leagues of gentlemen the most interesting introduction with someone of the opposite sex I have ever encountered. This magnanimous girl shared with me, and I shared back. We was like peas and carrots, Jenny and Forrest. I’ll hypothesize this is what speed dating feels like (multiplied by twenty women).
Finally she concludes this blissful interaction. “Well, I have to go to the bathroom now, and then rejoin my friends. You’re welcome to join us. We’ll be in the back across the street.”
“Sounds great.” I make no promises.
“It was great to meet you. I would hate to walk away and never see you again.” She’s prying; you better jump in on that before she thinks you’re socially autistic.
“Do you have a number I can reach you at?”
“Quickly! Get that phone out of the pocket. Expedite! Expedite! Okay, 321-xyz-ijkl.” She walks out of my life and into a port-o-john.
The fleeting angel never called back.
