Another Unfinished Story

Angela’s send-off is tomorrow night. Did you hear me, Sunny? Tomorrow night’s my last chance to talk to her and ask her to go out on a date. I can hear her say ‘yes’ already. You believe me, don’t you? I’m gonna ask her out and she’ll say ‘yes’. I’m gonna take her here after and then, you’ll finally meet her. We’ll have a few more Budweisers and make out in this old and beaten leather couch. I’ll look into her eyes, brush her hair away from her face, and then...who knows.

But, how do I ask her? I’ve been devising how to approach her ever since the first day she stepped into our windowless office. I remember her wearing a crisp white button down, her tight skirt hugging her cute butt, and her wavy hair framing her elfin features. Every guy craned his neck to blatantly stare at her swinging hips as she walked down the corridors to where her designated seat was. To my surprise, her seat was next to mine. I turned to look at her but had to quickly jerk my head away because I saw her looking. And then, the most amazing thing happened, she tapped me on the shoulder. SHE TAPPED ME. Can you believe it? She tapped me on the shoulder and said hello. I acknowledged her with a curt nod and returned to staring blankly at my computer screen. I pretended I was working intently. My fingers started tapping the keyboard automatically, aimlessly: asfjeopjrklnskhek’wefwlfj. Inside I was dancing but, of course, I can’t let her see that. I didn’t want her to think I was easy.

Since then, I’ve left her dozens of anonymous post-it notes and glass menageries to show her how suave I am.  The post-it notes she threw in the trash but the glass menageries she kept. She especially liked cat menageries. See? She’s my soulmate. She likes the same animals I like. I’m sure that you two will get along well. Hey, stop hissing. We’re still best of friends, man. Don’t be jealous. Stop looking so forlorn. Sunny, you’re not even a female cat so snap out of it. There, good boy.

It’s weird, though, because she never did once ask me if I knew who was giving her the post-it notes or the menageries. She just took them as if she was used to being showered with anonymous love letters and glass animals.  I tried to give her a hint that those came from me. One day, I signed my initials on the note but, like any other day, she crumpled the note without even reading it. 

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And then I got stumped again on what to write next.

Image from here.