Tonight you won me with your whistle. It wasn’t a construction worker or schoolboy whistle; it was involuntary and came out with your S’s. Despite quoting Sally and her seashore to prove you could do “s” just as well as the next guy, I like the way you did… as the preppy guy next to me in the collared shirt with the v-neck sweater. You’re adorable; paranoid, but adorable.
You told me “guys night out is bullshite.” That was my “you had me at hello.” You walked me home and offered me your scarf, and while I might have said, “whatever, it doesn’t matter,” it does. My favorite part of you was when you were sidetracked, and I caught a glimpse of an unrehearsed you, when I caught you blushing. I got to know you in a window, despite script and shoulds and decorum. I like you unrehearsed, whistling, vulnerable. I like you nervous and running away in thoughts and energy. I’m compelled, and awaiting our next meet and greet…
…Then he found my blog, and via Instant Messenger, I got, "I’m a very private person, and well, the things you write about make me uncomfortable." It was understandable, certainly. And, I twitched my nose in thought about to settle upon disappointment, but then it hit me.
"Thank you for showing me you this early on. I clearly need a guy who can deal, so you’ve saved me a lot of time."
It’s going to happen, and it’s something I’ve weighed heavily. I’m a big believer, though, if Mr. Right ever stumbles upon my blog, he’d take it with a wink and a smile. Then, I’d hand him the book Living with a Writer. Because that happens from time to time… you know, authors marry and then draw from the frustrations and elations of their lives. I believe I shoulder a healthy amount of proportion; I know when I’m crossing a line. And, I never write from revenge. Okay, almost never. I’m growing.