The following is somewhat of a missed connection. Actually that’s kind of misleading. It’s really more of an open letter to a gal I met. I don’t really know her that well, but I’m trying to figure out if there’s something there:


How’s it going? You remember me, right? We met at that party. I know, that doesn’t narrow it down a lot, but I think you know what party I’m referring to. Where we ate those terrible jello-like candies and ran around on the roof with sparklers in our hands as the sun set. I had just come back from the store with fresh supplies for pigs in a blanket when you gave me this look.

Your eyes sparkled as your face gave away a secret smile. A smile that seems like it was only for me to notice. A smile that hinted at mischievousness and passion and intent for relations of an intimate nature. Or maybe I had Takis crumbs in my beard and you were stifling your laughter.

This begs the question: what was that look? Was it a look look? I had a friend back in the day who, in his infinite wisdom, said “Always assume they’re sweatin’ your nuts.” So going by that logic I’ll have to assume you’re interested. But I really hope that my balls don’t make you sweat. They shouldn’t. They’re not all that great. Pretty average I’d say, though I’m not really an expert in balls and how one goes about rating them.

I mean I’m not that blind to signals. Like when this girl grabbed me, pulled me in tight, and said she’d punch me in the face some day, then proceeded to violently make out with me. I’m pretty sure she was interested. But don’t worry, girl, she’s not even in the picture anymore. My world revolves around you. If that’s what you want, I mean. I just need to know.

I tried to pick up on some other signs during the party. When you were grabbing another drink from the fridge, you touched my arm as you squeezed by. By itself, not a sign of anything other than politely ensuring someone gets the hell out of your way. But then when you let go, your hand slid down my arm. I know I don’t do that. Granted as a dude it tends to come off as super creepy when you do it. I accidentally did it once, and let me tell you, that was one pissed-off bouncer.

Even when you gave me your number. You did it by writing your name and number on my hand with a pen. I admit that it was kind of adorable. The intimacy of holding my hand as you wrote. The slightly antiquated way of sharing your number (weird that physically writing a number down feels antiquated now). But maybe that was just because you knew if it was on my hand I’d unintentionally wash it off. Besides, it’s certainly not as permanent as having your info in my phone. Sure, it was actually your number, and yes, we did have drinks a couple of nights later, but that just means that you’re being nice. I meet up with friends for drinks all the time.

And yeah, we did bang on several occasions across the past couple of months. But people bang randos they’re not really interested in all the time. I could easily have just been that guy who happens to be available while you’re waiting for the guy you’re really interested in. Or worse, you enjoy my company in a platonic way, and think that the only reason I’d hang out with you is if I knew that sex was an option. The fact that you got me those hard-to-come-by tickets to see my favorite band for my birthday could be coincidence more than anything.

I guess where I’m getting at is that I’ve never been good at picking up on signs, and I want to make sure I’m not barking up the wrong tree, as it were. Especially since we’ll be going to your parent’s place to celebrate Father’s Day with Chip (your dad insisted I use the nickname reserved for his best of friends). So I’d like to know for certain if you’re actually and truly romantically interested in me.


I like you. Do you like me?