Damn Initiatives

They say initiating conversation is half the battle. Yeah. It’s more like initiating conversation is the battle. I’m over here; you’re over there and there are quite a few barriers in between us. The first would include my relapse into a state of mild mental retardation whenever I look at you. The second would be the fact that I do have cable in my world, even though you may not think so seeing that there’s a choice between you and NASCAR right now on this TV. Lastly, I don’t long for you in the nerd plus fashion prima donna equals star studded romance. No, that’s not how it goes.

Anyway, I’m not perfect, as you have probably noticed from the first paragraph. Maybe conversation is a little too much to ask for right now, but someday I’ll get around to it. I’m nonchalant like that.

I suppose that before I start any conversation with you I have to prove that I:
a.) am not retarded
b.) do indeed have cable and pay a monthly fee for it
c.) don’t think I have a chance with you, but hey, it’s worth a shot

For the vast majority of us, we analyze posture and body language before initiating anything whatsoever to save ourselves from either being “shot down” or even backhanded. I suppose you sitting over there in the dark, on a barstool, rolling your eyes with your hands crossed over your chest isn’t well, the most inviting position ever. Perhaps it’s because the guy sitting next to me on this end keeps buying you an Amstel Lite every time you manage to give it away to one of the pool sharks whenever he looks away. I know you’re not a beer drinker; who drinks beer and looks like you?

Let’s scratch the initiating of conversation tonight and just forget about the whole thing. Self defeat isn’t really my style, but this character next to me isn’t going to use his quarters to play pinball; he’s going to buy the damn brewery before he gets the nerve to talk to you. I don’t honestly think that he would appreciate me talking to you either after he spent $30 on getting you so totally wasted that you’ll give him a shot, so I’ll play it safe.

I’ll play it safe. Good idea. The first good idea I’ve had in a while actually. I’ll just pop some peanuts in my mouth and order you a blue sky martini and we’ll be all set. The bartender personally delivers as directed and I watch to make sure my $6.50 glass of charm makes it’s way to you and your cozy disposition. The whisper comes. You know, “from the one sitting by the door”. You look. I make certain that I don’t make eye contact as I put my jacket on and leave a tip, some peanut shells, and shoot a smile at Mr. Amstel Lite man who looks at me like I just killed his dog. You smile and get up from your seat to make your way over.

You come closer. I zip up and walk out the door into the rain. I can hear your feet behind me as you pick up the pace. The door closes and I start my walk down the street. Conversation. I hate conversing. I can’t speak to you anyway; I don’t have the words to make you mine. No one does. Something warm touches my hand and I turn around. It’s you. You stand there in the rain, jacketless and I can see your breath. We must have looked really odd standing there without speaking to each other for a while. Then it hit me that I have never in my life met you, or even seen you before. Then the following words fell out of my face.

“No martini,” I ask.

“Not in the mood tonight; how about coffee though?”

What a reply. Perfection came from your lips with those eight words in response form. You’d make a great Jeopardy contestant if you can retort with questions like you did with that one. I failed with the martini, and you’re giving me another shot.

“Sure,” I respond as I take my jacket off and put it over your shoulders.

“So, what is your name by the way? I could have sworn it was Amstel for a while there.”

You laugh and roll your eyes as you guide me to the dimly lit coffee shop down the block. I guess that’s that for initiating conversation. Now for the other half of the battle; whatever that is.