325. You Will Meet A Tall, Dark Stranger

You will meet a tall, dark stranger. He will be where you wouldn’t think he is, and he will be everything you think he is… And some more.

He will like you, and you will like him. He will be sweet, sensitive, and have a penchant for witty jokes and diamond-shaped cufflinks. On your third meeting, they will be matching red hearts, like the ones on poker cards, and you will notice it, but not say anything about it, because you like a man who knows how to be subtle.

…What’s that? Will he be handsome? Heavens, how on earth would I know? Pay attention now.

You will invite him for dinner, and he will accept. He will show up five minutes before six, and you will tell him the dinner’s not until seven, and he will say, oh no, I must have mixed up the time. May I use the bathroom? And you will say that he can, and when he’s in the bathroom, you will hurry into the kitchen and turn up the oven temperature in hopes of getting the chicken done faster, and you will end up with a burnt chicken, a cut index finger – right below the second knuckle; it will be a shallow cut, but it will bleed nonetheless -, and tears when he comes into your kitchen to investigate the ringing sound that is the smoke alarm.

He will hug you and tell you that it is going to be okay, he’s there now. He will tell you that before he graduated from business school and started work in the investment bank, he was in a culinary course for two – you will say “ouch!” at this point, as he applies the iodine on the cut – years before deciding that he didn’t want to spend his life in some fancy hotel’s kitchen. In that moment, you will look into his deep, dark eyes, observe his stubbled jawline, and realize that you’re in love.

Yes? …No, I don’t know if you’ll end up eating home or going out. Why would you think I know that? Moving on.

You will ask about his family on the third time you go out. It will be over dinner at a bar and grill, and he will be halfway through his barbequed ribs. You will ask the question as you’re reaching for a french fry on his plate, and you will bite half of it off before you note his hesitation, and he will say that he doesn’t want to talk about it.

You will ask him why doesn’t he want to talk about it, and he will insist that he doesn’t want to talk about it, and he will ask to be excused, even though the tickets to the 8 o’clock show to A Gentleman’s Guide To Love And Murder have already been bought, and are sitting in his breast pocket. The first thing that crosses your mind is that if he’s going to leave, will he at least leave the tickets so that you can go and watch it. He will leave after paying the bill, and before the apology finds its way to your lips.

He will not reply your texts or answer your calls. You will try and find him on Facebook, on Twitter, on Google Plus, even on Myspace, and you will not find him anywhere. You will drown your sorrows in wine and belch them out in song. You will wish you have never met him to begin with, and you will spend years moping over the one that got away.

Well, why not, I’m quite done here, anyway. What’s his name, you ask? Goodness, you’re a basket full of questions, aren’t you? I don’t know, I haven’t met him. You can’t expect me to know the name of a man I don’t know, can you? Run along now, and remember to tell your friends where they can get their fortunes read.

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