I mean “Hey” er, “What’s up”? Yes you, the one with the beautiful light bedroom eyes and facial hair and knit cap and flannel shirt.
“How’s it going?”
I can only imagine how I must look. It’s 6:30 in the morning and I have no make-up on and my hair looks terrible. Oh, and I’m wearing maternity clothes.
Sorry, my boobs aren’t normally this big.
And I’m old. I mean, you look about twenty-five, give or take.
Yeah, that’s my SUV parked outside, the one I drove four blocks to get here. I’m on my way to my super interesting job of nannying.
And yes, the father of this baby is still totally in the picture and I’m very in love.
I’m not, like, some old, sad, pregnant lady who only gets out of the house to drink decaf Americanos and eat bagels. Though to be honest, that sort of sounds like a dream. Even better if someone went to got those things for me.
But then I wouldn’t get to see you.
I think you’re a representation of my past self. As in, back when I was single and looking, I would have planned my day around seeing you. That probably sounds weird and creepy and probably is, but it’s true.
I would have tried to glean as much information as possible from you as I placed my order and made small talk. The more I interacted with you or sat in the bagel shop to eavesdrop on your conversations with co-workers, I’d figure out what your story was.
I’d know which bike was yours locked up outside. I’d know what college you went to and where you lived. I’d hear about your favorite bands or what you did over the weekend.
I would talk about you to my friends and pen Tweets about our brief interactions.
Of course all of my dreams would be shattered once I found out you had a girlfriend or were gay. Or I’d see you on Tinder and swipe right or message you on OkCupid even though we’d only be a 54% match and I wouldn’t hear back and I’d be forced to avoid the bagel shop for awhile because it would be too embarrassing.
Now though? Now I tell you what I’d like and am polite and smile a little too hard and stare a little too long and my voice drops three octaves which I think is some weird, instinctual mating thing.
I factor in the ridiculousness of the situation. That even thinking you’re cute is absurd.
You would have played a much bigger part in the narrative of my existence back when I was so desperate for a connection.