When we last saw our heroine, she was tracking down guys in the street and speculating on the potential ramifications of her decisions. Ever self-effacing, she concluded that he would probably never call and the story would end there.
As it turns out, I was half-right. He didn't call. But as I stood in the gift shop of the National Gallery on Saturday (yes, I went back), I felt my phone buzzing in my bag. One new text message. From a 202 number I've never seen before.
Really? I imagined the words. Just an introduction? Maybe an invitation for drinks?
HEY SEXY. ITS [name]. WHAT UP?
Oh man. It's becoming clear why he didn't want to talk to me in Front Page. It could have something to do with a pathological inability to form a sentence.
To his credit, at least he didn't say SUP. But there was no way I could possibly respond to that. At least not yet. Not until after a couple of Sapporo and my finest rendition of "Livin on a Prayer" to date.
The rest of the hot guy story is unremarkable-- not only did he fail to string together a coherent thought, he also failed to find a group of us at Buffalo Billiards once we finished living out our dreams of karaoke superstardom. Clearly a winner.
The karaoke, though, was the stuff of legend, with one M.K. McCarthy and me soloing on a variety of classics including "Heatwave," "Follow You Down" (the dramatic irony of which I only realized today), and "It's Five O'Clock Somewhere." We were also asked to guest-star in a stirring performance of "I Will Survive." Unfortunately the song queue grew a little too long, so Meg, Marie, and I will have to wait for another day to pay tribute to Kelly Clarkson with our "Since U Been Gone."
Until then, stay classy, Cafe Japone.