Twice before, I have seen her, and twice I have thought she is adorable. Kim. She is just sweet. And not sweet like “nice” but sweet like a Mini Cooper with the British Flag roof or a pair of front row tickets to see K.T. Tunstall. Suh-wheat.
She has the athletic body I love and have no right to desire, mine being more of the round and plump variety. I can’t help it, she does it for me.
This is the third time I have come here with one woman and found myself looking at another. She smiles at me and makes an excuse to come over to my table, at least I like to think she wants to talk to me.
Tonight, I am here with Joyce, a long-time friend who is straight but supportive of my “difference.” She sees me looking at Kim and wants to know what’s up. I tell her that I have a crush, a real live schoolgirl crush on this woman in the khakis and the striped sweater. Her body is slim, her breasts small, her butt, tight. She wears no ring, but that doesn’t mean she is available. I don’t even know for sure she is a lesbian, but a girl can hope.
I tell Joyce I want to talk to Kim, to let her know that I think she’s amazing. I think I might give her my number and ask her to call me. Joyce calls my bluff and gives me paper and pen, and I write the note. “Kim,” I write, “I think you are adorable. Call me if you like.” I sign the note and add my phone number, then fold it, embarrassed that someone else might see it. Now, I have to find a way to give it to her.
I wait until she is alone at the counter, and pass her the note. I bashfully book it to the door and look back at her from the safety of outside, only then realizing that she spells her name with a “y”. Oh, shit. She is Kym with a “y” and I have written “Kim” on the note. Crap. Crappity crap. Well, I have again shown my imperfection, worn it on my sleeve the way some women wear their hearts. If I were she, I think I would forgive me. I hope she does. And, I hope she calls.
I can’t help it, she does it for me. *Sigh.*
