I was sitting in Starbucks, just waiting. He would be coming in any minute. 

For weeks I had been working a remote writing job. Just a few months prior, I had moved to Orlando for a job that lasted barely seven months before I was let go, had moved six times in a matter of two months, was living out of four boxes, and had jumped into a temp job before landing my remote writing gig. And I had just turned 30. 

You could say I was keenly aware of being single these days. 

Most days I ended up at a Starbucks for a three o’clock pick-me-up. And every day, like clockwork, a tall blonde Ryan Gosling doppelganger would pass through every afternoon, order a tall drip with cream and pick up a copy of the Wall Street Journal. 

Maybe it was more his air than his looks that made me think of Ryan Gosling. But that’s what I called him. That and his checkerboard vans which seemed a tad trying considering he had to have had a few years on me, at least five, maybe even eight years older than me. 

Every day a few minutes after three, he’d get his coffee and the paper, and grab a random table. He’d flip through the first few pages, which I presumed to be his daily ritual of digesting the top stories of the day. Because of course, a guy who's going daily picking up a copy of the Wall Street Journal is clearly as concerned with staying on top of current events as he is keeping his Vans pristinely white.

And every time he come in he’d walk by he would manage to lock eyes with me. At least that’s how I liked to think of it “locking eyes”, as if he was intentionally seeking mine out every time. Even if just in passing, if for a millisecond, our eyes happen to meet.

But I kept brushing it off. Whatever, he’s just looking around. Of course, I would shrug this notion off the more I saw him. Ok, back to work. At least pretend like you’re working. I kept going, anticipating the eye connection. Then I started thinking more strategically about where I was sitting and started facing the entrance to be certain I’d be in plain sight. But, of course, I was still convinced his eyes were seeking me out every time, even if he couldn’t avoid walking by my table.

I kept hoping a “Hey there,” would follow his calm and collected glare. 

Naturally, I didn’t think of approaching him. I mean - God forbid I appear desperate. By 30, I would rather appear disinterested than desperate.

In my highly calculated mind (or over-analytical mind, let's just call it what it is), putting myself out there wasn’t how this should play out. No, I somehow grew up with this mindset that boys approach you. Boys ask the girl out. That was just how it was done in the very traditional Christian culture I grew up in. And being painfully shy and introverted certainly only encouraged this biased approach. 

For the majority of my single years, waiting for this magical meet cute moment preoccupied my mind. I’m sure more women carried through their single years were more cool-headed than I was. But it was like a daily commentary of anticipation played in my subconscious. You don’t even realize it’s there until you don’t need it anymore.

Maybe I was just neurotically anticipating the moment, but every coffee shop, every grocery run, every friend party you go to, every church service I’d drag myself to attend solo, stood this gut-wrenching anticipation that I just might meet him.

I know not everyone’s cynicisms secretly mask a dissonant hopeless romantic inside. I know not every female painfully analyzes how she’s going to do it and just does it. 

But after weeks of grueling over it, friends finally convinced me, “Just say hi! What’s the harm in saying hello?”

So I decided to do it.

And I had the entire scenario planned out. I played it through in my head like a cheesy movie, line by line. I had replayed it so often and vividly, that by the time the opportunity presented itself it essentially had already happened. 

Rather than, being entirely out of my element, I would appear cool, calm, and collected. Like Jessa from Girls. Upfront and in control.

But God knows, I'm a far cry from a Jessa. Plus, Jessa wouldn’t have been so painfully choreographed and just said "hi". 

I planned to be there before three as usual. Grab a coffee and a seat not far from the newsstand. Take all but one copy of the Wall Street Journals and hide them under another publication, nowhere to be found. Take that one copy and place it on my table, at the seat across from mine, so that when Mr. Gosling came through foraging for his Wall Street Journal I could wistfully offer, “Oh, looking for this?” 

After parking my car and walking down to the entrance my heart was already pounding, my breath bated. Approaching the front door, it seemed everyone was out of work early that day, as the outdoor seating was overflowing with people, and I was already walking through in a dreamlike state. Everything was blurry around me but the designated seat and the stack of daily papers, so much so, that as I walked in a quarter to three, it wasn’t until I got to my table that I realized it.  

Mr. Gosling was already there, with his coffee and his Wall Street Journal. 

There he was without so much as a foot of space between himself and crowds of people around him. 

I put my stuff down and grabbed a coffee. I stood there as the afternoon rushed and drowned out my thoughts around me. Continually glancing back to the entrance, I knew if I didn’t just bite the bullet and say something then I’d never say anything. 

Sitting just by the front entrance, his back was to the door. 

I made my way over, poked my head out, and softly said “Excuse me.” He didn’t hear me. “Ehem,” I’d try once more. “Excuse me.” He quickly turned back in my direction.

He was on the phone. Freak, I’m an idiot. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Can I talk to you when you’re done?” I tried. What else was I going to do at this point? 

He slightly grinned. “Oh! Yeah, I’ll be right in.”

Can I talk to you when you’re done?! I had no clue how to do this thing calmly and collected, who was I kidding? I cowered my way back to my table and moments later he and his Vans slip-ons eased right into the seat across from me. 

“So,” he’d done this many times before. His half grin must have been permanent. “You want to talk?”

“Oh, yeah. Just wanted to introduce myself.” What am I saying? What am I saying? What am I saying?

He said his name, and I suddenly realized why his smile was always fragmented. His teeth were gray. But even the teeth didn’t make my stomach sink like the look I was getting. From the moment he sat down I felt I was being pitied. Or he was just entertaining the feeling of being flattered by this goodie two shoes he was looking down on.

This guy gets this all the time.

After talking about my remote writing job for “a non-profit that worked to transform health centers in Burundi,” he laughed. “Well that’s ironic,” he said. “I’m a marketing director for a vodka company but I don’t drink. Nicki Minaj is our spokesperson.” 

I quickly realized this guy was drawing all the parallels of how different we were in his shifty comments. And the weight of feeling pathetic dropped in my gut like a lead weight. 

Before we left he asked for my email address, which I assumed was a courtesy at the least. It would have felt less insulting to just not ask for anything.

But at 30 some practice was better than none. Eventually, I would ask the right guy out.