Work Crush stopped in to the cafe again Tuesday night. He came straight from his other job, sliding in about ten minutes before we closed. He was ostensibly there for a free New York Times, which I suppose is reason enough.
Does he do this on nights that I’m not working? The world may never know.
We chatted for a few minutes and he helped us with dishes, but I was thrown by his cameo appearance and, after a very long night, my conversational skills suggested English as my second, or perhaps third, language.
WC. Fast close tonight?
ME. So fast.
WC. (joking) Twenty minutes?
ME. I’m thinking more like eleven.
(my coworker laughs)ME. Nine, tops.
ME. (to WC) Actually, we’re leaving right now if you want to just wait outside…
See? I can flirt sometimes.
OK, that was not even flirting. I am hopeless.
A few friends and I are meeting up for the now-possibly-non-existent debate on Friday (dear John McCain: please stop cramping my style). I know that WC works Friday nights, but he gets off at 9 or 10 and I’m thinking of inviting him anyway.
It’s a delicate balance. If something comes of this, I want to know that it’s because he digs me and not because I marinated myself in a desperation reduction sauce and served myself up on a platter of wilted standards. He knows how to use a telephone (presumably) and, unlike me, appears to have a reasonable command of the English language.
But then I also know that he’s new in town, that he’s three years younger than me, and that without a solid social network in this zip code, he may have a harder time coming up with casual ways of suggesting that we hang. So maybe I’ll throw him a bone or two and see what he does with it.
And if he doesn’t bite, he doesn’t bite.