Shelly approached you at a wine club event and asked if you remembered me. We had gone to high school together, but you were a year older, or maybe two. I’m not sure if we ever spoke a single word to each other back in those days.
The following morning, she called me to relay her latest attempts at advancing my love life. “So don’t kill me, but…,” the story began. I felt embarrassed. I laughed, too, imagining Shelly doing her best to wing-woman her pseudo-daughter at a small-town social event. Again. I knew she meant well.
“I think he’s single,” she told me, as if that were the only detail of importance.
My curiosity was peaked, though, and I found your profile on Facebook without any effort. We weren’t connected there, but we had 40 mutual “friends.”
Something compelled me to send you a message. Apologizing for the awkward “harassment” was just a convenient pretext. But, deep down, I actually wanted to meet you. I was solidly in my regret-aversion phase, to be sure.
I was pleasantly surprised when you returned my message, just 30 minutes after I pressed “send,” with one of your own. You didn’t take me up on the apology beer I offered to buy you, though. Mildly disappointed, I responded politely to your comments, and I wished you good luck on your endeavors.
I didn’t expect a response, but one appeared five minutes later.
“Thanks! But tell me your story.”
You raised my hopes, momentarily, and I told you about grad school and my job and my internship. I asked more about your life, too.
This time, though, I never heard back. I’m not sure why.
