I have zero regrets about falling behind on work today, because spending time with my kid is my favorite thing, and I got to do it all afternoon. I’ll gladly work past midnight to make up for it.
Starting now.
I’m about to open my email to catch up, but first, I google “koala fingerprints.” Who knows when that little tidbit might come in handy? More likely at a business meeting than on a date, because I excel at the one and bomb at the other. My laser focus is better spent on business.
I learn that marsupials can grasp, much like humans, giving them humanlike prints. But before I can dive deeper into the implications of a koala-cage crime scene, a postcard Made Connections icon flashes at the top of the screen.
I sit up straighter.
Holy shit.
Is this what I think it is?
I figured the chances of the gorgeous brunette seeing my post were razor-thin, and the chances of her being single were even thinner—prosciutto-slice thin.
I honestly wasn’t expecting any response to my Made Connections post.
Hoping for one? Yes.
Expecting it? Not at all.
I have a plate full of work to devour this weekend, but this is far more appealing than email.
Before I open her response, I reread my original post, the one I put up right after lunch with my buddies today.
Seeking Fan of Snoopy:
For the record, I’d have given it to you. The gift we were fighting over. But I was having too much fun talking to you. And I wish I’d have gotten your number while we were deal making over dogs and drinks. Here’s hoping you see this and respond, because if you do, I promise I will ask for your number, use it immediately, and ideally take you out for those mojitos.
From,
The single dad buying a gift for his kid who got a call from the kid’s school right when he wanted to ask you for your number
I laid it all out for her from the start, letting her know the score. I don’t want her to say yes, then have some awkward moment over drinks where she freaks out that I have a kid.
Been there. Don’t want to go there again.
As I click on the postcard, my heart thumps a little faster with some kind of hope—is this modern dating hope?
Hard to say, since I’ve hardly dated since Stacey.
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel.
But I’m definitely enjoying the zing in my chest.
Maybe too much.
I try to rationalize. To prepare for bad news, since life delivers plenty of that.
Hell, maybe this note isn’t even from her.
Maybe someone else saw my post, thought it was for her.
Or maybe this note is from someone pretending to be my mystery woman.
But Summer assured me that catfishing can’t happen on this app. To answer a post, you have to fill out a box with something only the missed connection would know, proving you are who you say.
I had asked what was on the lunch box I bought, and when I open the postcard, her answer is the first thing I see.
Joe Cool.
A smile spreads across my face. Holy shit. This is her. This has to be my mystery woman.
I slide my finger over the screen while Queen Of Tofu reaches a paw across my leg, purring loudly.
Stroking her silky fur, I toss out a question to the cat. “What do you think, Queen LT? Good news, bad news?”
The cat flips to her back, offering her stomach for petting. “Excellent news, then?”
She purrs even louder.
I open the reply, then punch the air. “You were right, kitty cat.”
I’m almost as psyched about this as I am when I see the emails for the city’s new rec sports leagues.
Who am I kidding?
I’m more stoked as I read.
