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."
"What?"
"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.