2007
I met a guy I liked. He was digging me—or at least I think he was, but I figure out he’s not looking for a “wifey,” which he thinks I am. (For better or worse, most men who meet me think this. I’m emitting something evidently.) He called, I call back. We hung out once, he never called. I called (cause I liked him) and he never called back. That was that.
So I end up at the same venue as him a couple weekends later. He sees me, comes by, chats me up… then flirts?
“ Hey, D.” He flashes all 32 of his bright white, braces-perfect teeth. I am a sucker for a smile and it’s hard for me not to sigh where I sit. “You dancing tonight?”
Me: I’m drinking. I might. [Sip. Sip.]
Him: “If you’re dancing, I’ll dance with you.” Another flash of that smile. Oh, heart be still!
Me: “Ummm… Nah, I’m good. Thanks though.” [Sip.]
I brush him off—not to be mean, but to respect the parameters he’s defined. You’re not interested, dude, why are you flirting? Why the mixed signals?
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