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Bookstores in general are great for this sort of thing. The process of assessment is easier. Just by observing the object of your desire, you find out loads about your compatibility through what they're reading. Powell's Bookstore is especially good, as it is large and disorganized enough to provide plenty of time for milling about, and well-positioned seating for pushing eye contact on others while they peruse Wittgenstein: An Introduction.
The afternoon I was there was less than ideal. Apart from me most of the other customers were old men looking through genealogy books and Civil War histories, and although I should be open to any possibility given my success so far, I have to draw the line somewhere. There was a moment of hope as an attractive young woman came in through the door, snuffed out by her boyfriend. Forcing a missed connection is bad enough; trying to force it with the boyfriend present is just plain stupid.
Me: Surprised by your forwardness and spunk, I didn't quite know what to say when you bought me a drink.
You: Drunk, then very drunk, then passed out in the bathroom.
On the brown line headed back home we were lucky enough to come abreast the red line on a parallel track. I scanned the windows in desperation, hoping to find someone staring back but had to stop, embarrassed when I realized I had gotten the idea from a Dentyne Ice commercial. Later, back in Filter, I found a woman glancing my way, so I glanced back. We played at this back and forth for long enough that I manage to picture our first few dates, the funny way we get uncomfortable just before our first kiss, the minor disaster when she tries to cook for me one night – she can't make toast without burning it – made up for by Chinese takeout, etc, etc. Then, the critical juncture, she stands up and comes my way. It is imperative that I not screw this up; it has to go well with out going anywhere. I can't even learn her name. We need to exchange as few words as possible without seeming disinterested. Nervousness is key, so critical in fact that I get nervous thinking about playing up my nervousness. She's getting closer. I pretend not to look at her, watching just out the corner of my eye, closer and closer until she's right there in front of me. I wait a second and then feign surprise at her presence, take a deep breath and bite my lip in expectation.
It turns out we went to school together, had a few classes together, that sort of thing. She remembers me and I don't remember her. We chat for a minute, the “What-are-you-up-to? How's-so-and-so?” variety of idle talk. We exchange e-mail addresses and make promises for a near future coffee date.
Me: Fully aware that you were way out of my league, I took a chance and hit on you unabashedly. Maybe I was too aggressive or maybe you were just annoyed that I was interrupting your work, or maybe it was just the wrong place and time, but I had a feeling that despite my egomaniacal behavior you where a little bit intrigued.
You: Dressed in white, your hair tied back, a determined look on your face while you gave me seven stitches for a bizarre shuffleboard accident.
When I really mull over the missed connections I have had, the ones that were surrounded by chance and coincidence and were therefore magical, I have to be paradoxically realistic. There isn't a “the one” that I've missed, there are only ‘”the ones” that I've created. Even if I had my prefect moment I wouldn't have sent it off to the Reader in the hopes of a second chance. Real people just can't compete.
While writing this in a coffee shop a girl who I've seen around sat down at my table and started working on the crossword. After a few minutes of scribbling she looked up asked me the answer to 27 down. Even though I had completed the puzzle that morning, I said I didn't know and went back to wondering whether she was a dog person or a cat person and what our kids would look like.
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