From the original article on March 11, 2009. Author: Chateau Heartiste.
It’s time for another test of your game.
You’re enjoying the mild night air on the rooftop of a trendy lounge. In the corner you spot a short-haired, vaguely punkish pixie, with eyes like saucer plates. She catches your look and smiles... lasciviously, under heavy lids. Oh yes, this hellsprite has the right stuff.
A minute later she walks by you. Sensing an opportunity, you interrupt her as she passes: “Hey, what’s making you smile so much?” She locks her eyes on yours, smiles mischievously, and walks right past, slowly, saying absolutely nothing, brushing heavily against your chest along the way. You are intrigued.
Ten minutes later she returns and takes up her previous position near the edge of the roofdeck, seemingly in the company of a mixed group but talking to no one. She is facing outward toward the open night. You move closer to her and order another drink at the bar. Grabbing your fresh drink, you 180 and face the same direction as your mystery girl, standing side by side with her. You are about to say something when she breaks the tension first.
“It’s my birthday today.”
“Oh, really? Happy birthday. Get any awesome gifts?”
“Do you like watching people down below?” She is pointing over the roof edge at a couple crossing the street.
“Only the drunk ones.” Is this girl simply strange, or is she running some kind of female game on you? Whatever it is, you are captivated.
“I live in the neighborhood.” She thrusts her arm up and waves to some imaginary figure on a distant apartment roof. “Over there.”
“Yeah, I do too. Hi neighbor.”
You exchange insights with her about the neighborhood you share. It’s better on the weeknights. People treat their dogs like children. The local coffeeshop is a horrible place to meet attractive strangers. This rooftop has the best view of the President’s bedroom. Not more than a few minutes go by.
Suddenly, she turns to face you completely and rests her hand on your forearm. Silently, still smiling from under her pixie eyelids, she makes intense eye contact. She utters not a peep, nor does she have an expectant look on her face like she’s waiting for you to pick up the conversational slack. Her behavior is incomprehensible to you. You wish she is drunk so you can have a tidy explanation. But, no, she’s in control of herself.
“It’s time for me to go.”
You realize there has not been enough interaction to ensure a solid number close. “Ok. Hey, you’re interesting. Let’s chat again sometime. What’s your number?”
“No, I don”t give out my number.” Her obscenely sensual smile hasn’t dropped and her hand hasn’t left your forearm. “You’re attractive, I think.” The longest three seconds pass. Her eyes are burning holes in yours. “You can have my email.” As she’s saying this, her hand finally leaves your forearm and she begins to walk off.
“What is it?” You don’t have a pen.
She recites her email as she’s taking steps backwards from you. You can barely hear her through the crowd noise, so you’re not sure if you got it right, or if you can remember it later. The moment is disintegrating rapidly.
What do you do?
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