I just had my heart broken three seconds ago. I was writing a post entitled “Running with Rabbis”. I was just rounding out the fourth paragraph when it happened out of nowhere.
An Hour Ago.
Looking for a quiet place to write I wandered into smooch for a coffee and a corner table.
“How are you, my love?” He asked from behind the bar. His dark hair was neatly held back with a black bandana. I looked into his eyes a little too long before stammering out an answer.
“I’m okay,” I said with a dramatic sigh, attempting my best to come off as whimsical yet complicated. “What about your self?”
He looked at me and I saw a flicker of a smile coming on. “Do you want the truth.”
He had an accent. I was hooked. “Sure.”
“I’m awful. Our fridge is out. None of these ingredients will keep over night. On top of that, our grill is broken. Today is just not my day. I don’t know what I am going to do with all this food.”
“So basically what you’re saying is you’ll need me to eat a lot?” I said in a pathetic attempt to flirt.
He chuckled showing me a mouth full of perfectly straight teeth. “Yes, exactly.”
Crap. I wasn’t going eat. Oh well, I could go for a salad.
“Okay, make me the most popular salad.”
What followed was my best attempt to sexily walk away (which, I imagined, looked more like I had an itch I couldn’t scratch in public).
10 minutes later he came to my table and with a wink and salad.
I wonder if he’ll get his hair cut before he meets my Dad I thought as I dug into my inevitably over-priced salad containing greens, spinach, cranberries, hummus, tomatoes and a little bit of unimpressiveness drizzled on top. Anyway, I began to type away at my latest blog post as people filtered in and out striking up conversations with my newest love interest. Right as I was finishing my third paragraph, a man came in and shook hands with my barista as they began to talk about music.
“Three of the songs we are using in the competition are ones I wrote, so I’m thrilled.” My soon-to-be-beau said to the patron (I’d caught the middle of the conversation). Ohmigod. He’s a writer and a musician? Combine that with the unidentifiably adorable accent, and I was done. “Well brother if you need an extra in the band.” The man joked.
He smiled. Teeth again! Then he dropped this bomb:
“I would take you up on that but we just added my girlfriend to the overpopulated band, she’s playing the tambourine.” Now I sit here begrudgingly pulling out my wallet to pay too much for a stupid salad and even more for false dreams of the future. Okay, so heartbreak is a little dramatic, but I have learned my lesson:
Lesson 1: Do not let accents and cute waiters fool you.
I am not getting paid enough to flirt.