“Is that it then?”
Those words have caused me so much frustration tonight… She was in the palm of my hands.
“Is that what then?”
“Is that IT then?”
“Stop being so cryptic”
“No – is that it then?”
Then follows a look, a look I can recognise now in hindsight, and deep down at that instant knew what she meant. If her look was a sentence, it would be this:
“What the fuck are you waiting for? Kiss me, now!”
I was so scared of rejection that I didn’t go for the most obvious plea for a smooch I’d seen in years. She’d been all over me all night, and was easily a 7.9. Twenty four years old, blonde hair, beautiful eyes (though I’d not be able to tell you what colour they are – I never remember the colour of anyone’s eyes. Literally, there’s not one friend or former lover of mine that with whom I can recall their eye colour), 5’5″, immaculate body, feisty attitude; this girl was all I could hope for right now.
The flirting had been going on all night. I played it cool, giving her just enough attention to keep her wanting more. After giving her a bit of space, I heard a wretching noise coming from the lady’s room whilst I was cleaning it. I enquired to see if whoever was in their was alright, and if she was puking would she like a sneaky (as in I wouldn’t tell any bouncer or staff member she was being sick) glass of water. The door opened, and I see little Miss Flirty sitting there on the loo with bloodshot eyes. I ask her if she’d been sick, and she said she’d not been – she’d apparently been crying. The song that had been playing, oddly enough a personal favourite of mine (Whitney Houston – I Wanna Dance With Somebody) was the song at her friend’s mum’s funeral. I didn’t believe her at first, thinking it a sloppy and rushed blag to save face from the accusation of chundering, though after more and more details emerged, it became evident that this was in fact the truth.
I consoled the poor girl and we then began chatting about other things. Many tight embraces followed, and longing stares. We stared at each other in the mirror, and she then let her hair down. She looked amazing. We looked great together, and we both knew it.
….and then came those words that should have been music to my ears, but instead became the headlights to the proverbial rabbit that is me. They were ushered upon our exit of the toilets:
“Is that it then?”
It pains me to write this, it really does, but it’s important that I chronicle these emotions, this memory, as a lesson – dude, don’t worry about rejection, it’s a million times better than this feeling. Especially ignore that fear if you’ve been approached in the most brazen of ways – there was literally nothing else she could have done more to express her interest. She even asked me what time I was finishing earlier in the night… UGHRRRRRR YOU IDIOT MAN!
Shelley (god, I hate that name, but you’re still amazing regardless; an opportunity I’ll always regret passing up), I’m sorry I didn’t step up to the plate… I’ve now been imagining all the fun times we’re having in the parallel universe where I’d grown a pair.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device, onboard the 25 Bus, head hanging in shame.