So, I finally meet “Marcel”, BF. And he’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met. At that point I think I dated every asshole in the OC metro area in my demographic. But here’s this young, pretty foreigner. Yes, I said pretty. Tall, dark and handsome. He was soft-spoken with a little bit of an accent. Once we actually started talking, half the time I had no idea what he was talking about. I just smiled and nodded. I think the same worked for him; me with my “California accent” and fast speak.
I see him at the club every week still and we would say hello and hug, but nothing really more than that. I would always save the last dance for him and then be on my way. Except for this one time, where I danced with this random idiot, with fabulous abs, and to this day BF gives me shit for it. ha ha ha
Months go by of the same routine: Hi, hug, do my own thing, dance with him, go home. He finally decides to talk to me as we are leaving and I suggest we exchange phone numbers. He says sure and walks with me to my car. The only piece of paper I have in my car is a parking ticket I got at school. He turns it over writes his name (oh shit, it’s NOT Marcel, but I was close at least it sounds like it) and his phone number. He takes up the ENTIRE piece of paper. GRRRRR I can’t give him mine!!! I don’t call boys, they call me. I mean, I’m all for liberation but that is one thing I don’t do, I don’t call boys!!! What am I going to do about this?!
A Dog-Eared Life 