soapboxdiner

The vest of my love

Once upon a time, there was a guy I really dug. Worked in the Psych Unit of the hospital I worked at. Played jazz bass in a band. Would come down and chat and give me shoulder massages and make me laugh. Always wore high-water black jeans with white socks and paisley vests over Fonzy-esque T-shirts. Sported a heinous mullet. I was in love, people!

I had no words to express my deep and abiding affection, though. I struggled. I wrung my hands. And then I asked my therapist, "How do I tell this guy I want to keep him and love him and hug him and squeeze him?"

She suggested coffee. I, on the other hand, thought this was just too typical. So Vest Guy and I continued our dysfunctional little merry-go-round of innuendo and attraction-skirting. He'd come down to my department and would rub my back. I told him he had nice hands, and I had to keep them. He asked me what I would do with them.

Looooong pregnant pause.

So I, being the smooth and subtle creature that I am, just spit it out in a mid-day communique, "I really like you. I want to date you and perhaps plan our emminent nuptuals."

He emailed me back and told me "don't ever contact me again - freak."

2:20 pm - 11.10.02
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