Que Bella!

I met an Italian guy at Starbucks. I wasn’t trying to meet the guy, he just started talking to me when Wai went to the bathroom. He said he was having trouble making a CV. He’s a photographer and he wants to find a job. I said, “Oh, I’ll help you with your CV, I’m surprisingly good at getting jobs I’m not remotely qualified for.” Apparently, it was as easy as that. He insisted I give him his email address so that he could send it to me, and he showed me his photography website, and I must say, his photos were quite impressive. We met a week later. We talked over coffee—I could only understand about 1/3 of what he said. But he was clearly smart. He showed me a campus, I let him beat me at foosball, and then we had a beer. I had a meeting to be at by 2pm and he knew this. He said, “Stephanie, I’d love to sit here and talk to you forever, but I’m afraid I’ll make you late!”

He had the beautiful long, blond Italian hair, he had the sexy Italian accent, and he had the talent to boot, but you know what? I didn’t feel anything. Other than, oh wow he’s really attractive and obviously interested. Therein lies the problem. Interested. Don’t get me wrong, I love it when a guy is interested, especially when I’m interested in him. Two often I find I have chemistry with someone, but major obstacles in the way: girlfriend; overbearing job; living on the other side of the world. You get my drift. But without that chemistry, without a little ounce of excitement, the hottest guy in the world could want to buy me coffee and take beautiful photographs of me, but what would be the point? I’d only be pretending.