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?
WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?
PICK UP 'A BELLE IN BROOKLYN' FROM AMAZON.COM