Three days passed, and three days worth of pacing led to wearing through the what was solid wood flooring, and actually turned out to be Pergo, as pressboard began to show through.  I only know the term pressboard from Christian, a friend who writes the advice column “Ask Nancy,” in the lifestyle section of the newspaper.  He not only helped decorate my apartment, but pronounced the word pressboard with four extra s’s.
    I had the card in one hand, the phone in the other.  “Make a goddamned decision, Cheridan.  You haven’t been out in six months,” I thought to myself.  I dialed, slowly, stopping at the last digit.  My thumb hovering above the six at the end.  I took a breath and pressed down.  One ring…two…”why are you doing this?”  I wanted to hang up.  He was cute, but so cliché.  
“Hello?”
Oh God.  Say something unstupid.  “Hey…this is Cheridan.  We met the other day”
“The flower gazer.  I’m really happy you called.  What’s going on?”
“Nothing.  Just wondering what the other day was all about.”
“Well, you captured me, so I had to capture you.  It’s what I do.”
    An odd silence followed, me wondering what to say to something like that, something so great it seemed scripted, and him wondering if what he said creeped me out.  “I’m hungry, are you hungry?”
“Uh…OK.  How about a name first?  I’m Cheridan.”
“Travis.”  Typical.  Why am I doing this?  It was either Travis, or Chase, or some other name with ripped jeans and a wool cap.  The same cute guys at the coffee shop typing intently on a laptop, pretending not to see every woman that walks by.  Or the ones playing a guitar under a tree to no one, their coyness making women toss dollar bills with numbers written on them into an unassuming guitar case.  But I was bored, a tad lonely, and fascinated by a guy with the brazenness to take my picture.
    He asks me to “Guido’s,” a hard to get into restaurant with menus neither of us could pronounce.  And despite everything I could do to hate him, he was absolutely charming.  The waiter came for our drinks, and he ordered a bottle of “flumflorflamaou,” to which we both laughed.  There was no presumption as he mangled Italian despite the fact it was written phonetically.  I found myself laughing before I could remind myself not to have a good time.  I wanted to punch the guy for being a real person and ask him where he really bought his clothes.   
    Dinner ended too well for my taste and I found myself hooking my arm through his as we walked from our table.  I realized I had two more glasses of wine than he had, and he was so charming I was waiting to hear him fart and break the utopia of the evening.  But he didn’t, and stopped after we walked through the revolving door.  
“Do you want me to get you a cab?”
“No, thanks.  I actually live five blocks from here,” I said through a drunken giddy giggle.  I waited for him to make the guy move and reach in for the too much tongue kiss, as if he scored before he knows he scored.  But he didn’t.  He gently lifted my hand and pecked my knuckles.  I felt a slight tingle flow through me.  I hated it and loved it.  Pictures of my mom’s face as I brought him home to meet the parents ran through my head.  I saw us going through pictures and discussing lighting.  Wool Cap was real.  And I didn’t want my night to end.
“Well, I have an early morning, but I would love to see you again.  Can I call you?”
I covered my mouth to stifle a laugh, “Of course.  Call me whenever you want.”  God, I sounded so desperate.
“Alright, cool.  I’ll talk to you soon.”  He kissed my hand again and held my hand in the air for a moment before letting it fall.  I covered my mouth again and turned to cross the street.  I looked up and thought, “ I found it, I hope,” as I felt the shock.  I don’t remember pain, I only remember the dull thud of my legs before my head broke the windshield.