Here He Comes

He was looking at me from across the promenade.

I think he was looking at me.

I hoped he was looking at me.

I scanned the rest of the promenade. No one else was around. He was definitely looking at me.

He’s my age if he’s a day. Good looking. Confident. Dressed in light blue jeans, white t-shirt with a navy jacket. His white hair contrasted his tanned face.

He’s definitely looking at me. Right? I’m pretty sure.

Anyway, I sat there waiting patiently while he sauntered over.

He’s coming straight for me. His smile is gorgeous and he asks if he can sit down. I almost got up to push the chair in for him.

Be still my heart!

Then he opened his mouth.

What just happened?

I wanted him.

I got him.

But now I don’t want him.

All within 30 seconds.

My brain is working overtime and I’m mapping out how to handle this-this-this cad.

“You come here often?”

I swear to gawd.

That’s what he said.

Followed by:

“And you’re sitting here not smiling.”

Dude. Do you hear yourself?

It seemed he had a million of these ridiculous one-liners and wasn’t going to stop until I engaged with him.

So what do I do now?

Well it turns out a Seventy-year-old-woman can do anything she likes.

I stood up. Pushed my chair in. And walked away.