So I go and sit down in the library and I see this girl.
She’s sitting alone to my left, in a glass-walled ‘discussion room’ that’s usually used when two or more people want to fuck around under the guise of ‘studying’.
Sitting cross-legged on the chair, she intently pores over the pages strewn in front of her. A black dress that with hangs with strings from her shoulder reveals her tanned skin that glows with a healthy hue. Her dark hair is tied back in a bun, with a fringe still perched across her forehead.
She leans on one arm, then the next, then back again, shuffling and re-shuffling collections of pages. She seems frustrated, stressed. I can’t approach now. I’d be interrupting.
Or would I?
There are few things in this world that are more valuable and enticing than an attractive romantic prospect. I’d just be popping my head in and saying ‘Hi, excuse me, but you’re the cutest girl I’ve seen all day, and I had to meet you. My name’s…” and see how she reacts.
The coward in me predicts her rebuffing me with a stern “can’t you see I’m busy?”
The realist cynic asserts that she likely has a boyfriend, and that’s the first thing that’s going to come out of her mouth.
The optimist, charged with tense bravado, exclaims that it doesn’t matter, that this is a numbers game, that I’ve busted my ass in the gym and in front of the mirror and with the guitar and with nigh every area of my life to be attractive, and that I should just go and flip the rock and get it over with.
I look again. I start rationalizing. Wait until she pulls out her cell-phone, that inevitable minor surrender that so accompanies boring and frustrating work. She’d be happy to be interrupted by me then. Or, wait until she starts packing up to leave, and catch her on the way out. That way, if things go sour, we both have an exit.
Do this, do that, do anything except approach.
Another look. She looks like she’s sighing. Fed up. Tired. I should get up and go do it. I pause the music, pull out my earphones, and grab my phone.
Thump thump thump.
My heart goes into overdrive. Nausea. Fear. Hesitation. The dreaded approach anxiety so battled by every man who ever thought of approaching a woman.
I don’t get up. I open up a Word document and start typing, “So I go and sit down in the library…”*
*Approached. Her name’s Angela. She’s cool and interesting. Number closed. Let’s see where this goes.