Eyore rented out a lounge Saturday night for a graduation party for her boyfriend. When I arrived, a couple of girls were leaving and exchanging parting words with Warren.
"Hey," I greeted Warren at the door with a brown bag under my left arm. A liter of vodka and a liter of rum.
My eyes trailed from Warren and landed squarely on one of the departing girls; a girl of seemingly mixed heritage, pale skin, curly hair, but a dab of slant in her eyes. I'd have guessed Korean and white, the Korean of which was probably either passive or absent in her upbringing, because she donned a white-washed ensemble -- a summer dress under grandma sweaters and ribbony decor in her hair.
Following my eyes, Warren took cue and introduced me to the girls, asserting cadent emphasis on the halfie.
I shook hands with the other girl first, the halfie second and last and held her hand for a second after, "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch it. What was your name again?"
She answered, and I released her hand.
I repeated her name slowly at first and then followed up by quickly chanting it three or four times as if to commit it to memory. "Okay, got it," I clasped my hands together, "I will be asking Warren for your number later tonight."
"What?" her head bobbed backward.
"Yea," Warren chimed in, "What? She's right here, man, why don't you just ask her right now?"
"Well she's gonna say no," I explained, "And you know me -- I'm terrified of rejection."
The girl laughed, her face starting to flush a little, "Well, I think you should just try. You'll never know!"
"Oh, I already know. We just met -- I mean, a guy can't just walk up to a girl and be like, 'hey, can I have your number?' You're leaving; I've missed my chance for the pick-up. I'll take my chances with him, thank you." I pointed in Warren's direction.
"What are you afraid of?" she crossed her arms, as if I really needed to be persuaded into asking her for a number, "Let's be honest, this right here--this isn't exactly a strong first impression." She motioned her finger in a circle around the area we were standing.
"Well," I fabricated a sigh, "If you really insist."
She placed a hand on my shoulder and gave a soft squeeze, "Try me."
Why the hell wouldn't I ask her for her number? She wanted me to do it. It was her idea -- or at least, she thought it was. "All right," I began pseudo-hesitantly, "Can I have your number?"
The girl giggled and nervously broke eye contact with me. She took a deep breath. There it was, the moment of hesitation. I was so in. The girl looked around, as if looking for support or assurance. Instead, she found eye contact with her friend. Shit. I forgot about the friend -- her two windows back into a mind of sensibility.
She stopped giggling almost instantly and cleared her throat. "You know what," she looked back at me and tried to feign a smile, "I just--I don't think that's a good idea."
I feigned a reciprocating smile, "Well, that's okay. Nice to meet you, anyway." As she turned her back, "I'm...uh...I'm still going to get it from Warren, just so you know."
After they left, Warren pined, "Damn, man, I really thought you had it."
"Shut up and give me her number."
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