Looking + Talking = Meeting

Last night, I went to see a movie with my work husband—let’s call him Love Heroine.  One Saturday night—shortly after my breakup—he didn’t have a date, so we picked a movie.  After it, we went for food (and Coronas).  The waitress comes, takes his order, and all but asks for his number.

                “Hellllrrrr!  I’d like to order,” I smiled but didn’t say.

                She winks at him and twirls away.

                “If we were really dating, I’d have a throw down during every date.”

He laughed his laugh that is appropriate for everything.

Love Heroine would love every bit of a Saturday night cat fight.  The men would be holding their Coronas at their hips, throwing money into the fight, and buy him buckets of ice cold Corona. 
          "Salud!" they'd all cheer.

We became friends soon after he was hired, and then we went through (big) breakups about the same time.  But, he’s heterosexual (and has that Latin magnetism), so he has dated throughout the past nine months.  I would hate him, but he’s been my rock—, keeping me sane, listening to outbursts about the injustices of the female reality, and alerting me of pretty girls all around. I’m learning a few things from him about getting a female’s attention. Turns out, you have to look at them and talk to them.  Who’d have guessed.  This is going to be tough. 

My plan has always been to watch from afar, scan their energy, and wait for a spirit guide to signal me into the action.  Initiating isn’t going to be easy—, but I stopped by the library and picked up two Young Adult books on How To.

During lunch at Whole Foods, I look up and there are two women my age, standing behind me.  I can unobnoxiously look at the one who is straight but my gadar is going off, so I’m trying to look around her to see what’s triggered the alarm.  For fear of looking desperate, I give up.  Just ahead is an adorable co-ed aged girl, ordering deli slices.  She’s giggly and happy and that’s what everyone on the rebound needs, but she’s way too young. 

I have a history of putting too much heat on my foods—must be a Texan thing.  I get up to get a few more ounces of water and while I’m waiting for the elderly lady to pay $4.58 for her 6 oz of soup, I imagine that she probably fed her entire family of eight (imaginary) children and husband (before trickle-down economics) on a dinner that cost less than that cup of hippie soup.  And for that nasty little thought, karma raised her ugly head.  Baammm! 

I look up to feel the lukewarm vibes of someone from a distance who was checking me out.  (They would have been hot vibes, but she was more than five feet away.  Anything beyond five feet exponentially decreases love heat per cubic foot.)   There I am, picking a sesame seed out of my left back molar, #15, with the tip of my tongue.  So, I miss my chance; but, according to the YA book, I get two points for actually looking at each opportunity.

My workmate and I get back to Cubicle World and I begin to hum along, getting important stuff done.  At some moment in the late afternoon, I feel imaginary oranges—the soft ones that are rotting on the inside but not yet gooey on the outside—hit the back of my head.
          "Pay attention!"

I hear a client in a senior manager’s office and for no logical, empirical, or tangible reason, I begin to believe to that the client is a female gay.  So, I bounce around the perimeter of said office and mind my own business, seining like a fisherwoman for gay sounds and clues. Unfortunately...I’m paralyzed without a plan—even if I wanted to lose my job for a foolhardy test of courage.

After work, I clean out the home office, packing a few boxes, and then settled into my routine.  After a bit longer, I text’d Love Heroine.  He’s on-the-road for the week.

“Are you tucked in?”

“Tucked in at Olive Garden, LOL. Watcha doing?”

“Watching a lesbian series,” I say daringly because I haven’t mentioned that I know where one is.

“Yay,” he texts with much jealousy.

“I’d tell you about it, but I’m sworn to secrecy unless you know the code.”

“The code?  Hmmmmmm.”

Have you ever noticed when guys don’t know something they have a way of enticing you to tell them what they don’t know?

“Do you have it?” I ask.

“Yes but it’s a secret.”

“Exactly,” I say.

He’s having a good time wherever he is. Hell—, he probably wrote the lesbian series that I’m watching.  

I’m taking notes from the show of how to approach a woman.

“What if I had pulled a ‘Frankie’ on her?,” I mention, to myself, the lesbian siren who is obviously on hiatus from a Swedish modeling career.

“Yah! Do it!” I say in agreement with myself.  "Stand outside the door, and when the client tries to leave, erect a blockade.  She’ll be forced to look into my sultry eyes (that have never seen so much eyeliner).  While the seconds become minutes and the tension builds, wait for her submissive acknowledgement of deep desire.  Only then, release her to a world of isolated hell where she’ll crave me until she has me,” I encourage myself for the next client-wanting-sex-with-a-stranger opportunity.

“Seriously—it’s Monday.  That stuff only happens on hump-day.”