So there I was in line to get a cup of coffee, not a half-caff two-pump Frankendrink, at my local independent coffee retailer, not a BevMart with a line out the door, when this really cool chick behind me admired my bag.
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Now, I'm proud of this bag because I was determined not to get a BoyBag or a ManPurse, but I needed something to carry my iBook around in and one run-on sentence led to another and I scored this groovy navy surplus map case for $15. Shoulder strap is oh-so-convenient. Butch factor 12. Gender confidence high.
So this groovy girl sort of tugs on my sleeve (how cute is that?) and I turn around and she's got sort of kinky curly hair (not pervy-kinky, actually kinky) and those half-height glasses that brainiacs wear that make me swoon. Lil stud in her nose (jewelry, not like Fernando-stud), sassy starched white shirt (the kind you can see the tasteful yet lacy bra through, yum).
"Hey," she tugged. "Nice bag."
I am no smoothie but when pressed I can totally summon the blarney and I mean when a beautiful woman tugs your sleeve and compliments your bag, that is pressure, mano. I was hoping she wouldn't look down to the peds because I left the house in a hurry and went for the battered sneaker look. I never seem to meet chicks when I'm wearing the Bally lace-ups. Probably because they fuck up my posture.
"Thanks," I said, and it came out way more baritone than I was expecting, owing to activities of previous P.M. and the early hour of the A.M. Startled by my own Barry Whiteness, the blarney left me and I blurted out "I like your... "
This is where you need to be not so much social in the morning. Sure, at a dinner party you might return the compliment with a degree of panache; you're awake. What you probably would not say is:
"Thanks. I like your... lips."
The thing is, her lips were not her best feature. They just happened to be what I was staring at when my mouth needed something to say. Mouth: 'Hey Brain, I'm in a jam...' Brain: 'Lips. Next..?'
She looked at me a little quizzically, and those lips went into a half-smile that kind of punched right through my sternum and lodged in my spine. You could tell, because as we inched forward in line, I practically fell over trying to explain my Nifty Bag Features in an attempt to save the moment.
Which is why all five condoms I own spilled out onto the floor along with a pen and thirty-seven cents. I have no idea why those items were in my bag. Especially the pen.
She gamely looked at the drink board. I noticed her shoes. She ordered a small coffee to go. No one else noticed much of anything.
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