You first meet her at your usual lunch joint. She is beautiful. Not exceedingly beautiful such that she would feature on the cover of some high-end magazine, no. Her beauty is that type of beauty where you’ll turn back a second time to stare at her, then forget her for the rest of the day.
However, when you are going to sleep and your mind is blank, you’ll remember seeing something beautiful, something that made you feel good about life in general, but you can’t quite put your finger on what it was. She has that kind of beauty. You are out for late lunch with your boys when you spot her. No, actually you are not the one who spots her. Rather, it is your short philanderer of a friend who initiates first contact. You are just that guy who was eating lunch with a guy currently hitting on her.
You bump into her a few days later, at the same joint. This time you are with a different friend. She spots you coming in and comes to you to say hi. She is hot. Short and hot. It strikes you that you have never really appreciated her height, or lack of. You return her greeting, act like a cool guy, and pretend that you hadn’t seen her when you walked in and ignore her. You are pleased that she remembers you, it bloats your ego somewhat. Your friend asks you who the beautiful girl who has just said hi to you is. With a straight face, you look him straight in the eye and tell him you don’t know that girl, have never seen her and add something random (or so you make it seem) about girls stopping you in public places all the time. No big deal, see?
You don’t see this girl for a week. You start lambasting (I bet you’ve never seen this word before) yourself for your indecisiveness, for not asking for the girl’s number, for pretending to be a cool guy by not asking for it from her. Suddenly, you remember that your philanderer friend has her number. You consider asking him for it but then you think about how it would be weird introducing yourself to the girl.
Girl: “Hi, who is this?”
Not so cool guy: “I am *insert philanderer’s name*, you know, from a week ago, you said hi to me at *insert lunch joint’s name.*”
Girl: “Oh, you.”
Your ego gets deflated by how she waves you off, as you would a pesky fly hovering behind your back.
So, you act a cool guy and you DON’T ask for her number from your friend.
PS: Dear Philanderer Friend,
I am sorry for referring to you in this manner. However, should I reveal your name on this space all your potential conquests would drop you faster than you would a hot potato. That is, if you suddenly develop the strange habit of taking hot potatoes and holding them in your hands for long periods of time.
The beautiful girl slowly fades into the deep confines of your mind. You almost forget her. Almost. You bump into her after a week’s hiatus. This time the bumping process occurs at a mall. A mall with huge crowds of people. Not your usual lunch joint. See, fate was tired of the whole lunch mumbo-jumbo. She is alone this time. The two of you spot each other from afar. Afar hear being five metres. Not the Afar in Ethiopia. The place where Australopithecus Afarensis was first discovered. This is the sort of useless information I keep in my mind for moments like this. Thank you High School for imparting in my mind this important piece of information.
The beautiful girl from Afar. She flashes you a huge smile. Everything around her seems dimmed by the smile. You feel your insides melting. You smile back at her. You hope that her insides are melting too. You come up to her and sit next to her. She has on this very short skirt. You talk to her a bit. You try very hard not to look at her thighs. They look heavenly. She catches you looking at them. She looks you in the eye. This looking business is making you very nervous. Then she laughs. Her laugh makes you think of kittens and puppies. You take her number this time.
You don’t text her immediately. You are a cool guy after all, you bide you time. You do a little reconnaissance first. Instagram. Facebook. She is not on Twitter. You meet up with your Philanderer friend. You start talking about football. You analyze the transfer market. You find a way to drag the conversation from Morgan Schneiderlin to the girl with the beautiful face, blinding smile and heavenly thighs. Your friend tells you he has been with her. The incredulity on your face makes it clear to him that you don’t believe him. He shows you some pictures. And a couple of twerk videos she sent him. And the clips of her inhaling shisha at some dodgy joint somewhere. You switch the conversation back to Morgan Schneiderlin.
You bump into her a few days later. She flashes her blinding smile. She has on shorts this time. Short shorts. You gulp. Heavenly. The two of you exchange some random banter. She asks you why you’ve never texted her. You make up some lame excuse about being busy with work. She says she has to go. You hug her goodbye. That night you delete her number. You never see her again.
© 2015 – 2017, Carey Baraka. All rights reserved.