Boy Doesn't Quite Meet Girl

I'm passing the bar, on my way back from the washroom, when I notice him smiling at me. So I smile back. And keep walking.

I return to my little tucked-away booth where I resume the random conversations between two friends who don't see each other nearly enough. Hours later, after a heart-to-heart accompanied with massive water (and minimal white-wine) consumption, I head back to the washroom. Which I swear was renovated since last year's excursion. My friend disagrees. Yes, these are the important matters worth debating.

While I'm away, he approaches my friend. He asks her if I'm single. She doesn't lie. He tells her he thinks I'm cute. And then he walks away.

I'm not long in the ladies' room (no need to freshen up when you're not trying to impress anyone), but when I return, he's gone. He doesn't quite understand the bathroom strategy. Essentially, you want to intercept someone returning from the washroom. You don't actually miss them and use the facilities yourself. The strategy has served me well in Stratford. But that's another blog entry.

Back at our table, my friend tells me everything. Because that's what friends do. It's surprisingly exciting. Mostly because such attention is a rare thing. And it's nice to feel like a woman sometimes. I mean, I WAS wearing a dress. It's lovely to be noticed.

I'm not facing the bar, but she is. She tells me when he's back.

Secret of the day: I don't know how to play the game. I don't flirt. I send mixed messages, not "come hither" ones. I don't know if I should wait three days for a call, or if you not responding to an email means something or not. And you telling my friend that you think I'm cute is not enough. If you want to talk to me, TALK TO ME. Because I'm a clueless mess.

He doesn't come over.

A few minutes later (and long after last call), we get up. We slowly walk past where he's standing. I smile at him again, this time self-conscious and slightly awkward. He smiles back.

I half expect a Hollywood ending, with him running after me as I step into the cool air. The town is asleep, the traffic lights flashing. Very Notebook-like. We could lie in the intersection and talk about painting. But I don't paint.

He doesn't follow me.

The next night, I'm watching the closing performance of All's Well That Ends Well. He's there. Pacing on the open stage.

He can perform for thousands, but cannot approach the cute stranger. Oddly, I understand, but wish he had the guts to say hello. Because it would have made a more interesting story. And because Stratford is the only town where these things happen. Now I must wait an entire year before another evening of garlic fries and handsome actors who don't speak to me.