I always tell my friends the same hypothetical story of how I’d like to meet someone.
It’s in a coffee shop. With a hot cup of coffee in my hands. I’ll be turning the corner and suddenly BAM! I smack right into him. My drink pours down the front of my shirt (probably scalding my first layer of skin, to be honest) and I’m yelping in pain.
I’m embarrassed. He’s embarrassed and feels terrible (because, duh—the man of my dreams has endless amounts of compassion). And everyone in the coffee shop is second-hand embarrassed… Mostly for me.
“I’m so sorry,” he’ll sputter. And then he’ll offer to buy me another drink. This time it’s iced coffee. All jokes considered.
We’ll sit down and have a long chat about our lives. What makes us tick. What gets us up in the morning. What fulfills us and what empties out our hearts on a daily basis. What our parents are like.
(Ignore the fact that my shirt is stained with coffee and I’m still reeling from the pain of having hot coffee poured all over me.)
It’ll be magical. Momentous. It’ll turn both our worlds upside down. It’ll be all the things and more. I’ll see fireworks in his eyes and he’ll see a Disney sparkle in mind.
This is it, I’ll think to myself. Forget all those other gentlemen callers, the universe has brought me the one! Cease all your efforts, Kaylynn. They are now futile.
And deep sigh. This is why I’ll never find someone I like.