#notgettingarrested

At a party with girlfriends, I notice a cute young man staring at me from the other room.  I move, and he still stares.  I point him out to my friends, we laugh.  He asks me to dance.  I say, “No, thank you.”  He asks me again.  I don’t see the benefit in shaking it up with someone for whom I might have babysat, but he’s so persistent that I allow it for a few minutes. 

When it is time to leave, he follows me out to my car.  He carries a pretty orange flower, stolen from the garden of the neighbor.  He bows as he presents it to me through my window and we all giggle as we drive away. 

Mr. Young finds me on the Internet and asks me to hang out.  I put him at about twenty-six years old, but pray for twenty-nine, though I don’t hold my breath. 

We have lunch and talk about college and jobs, so I am feeling like he might be closer to thirty than I’d initially assumed, though he was still working hard to sound older, which was having the opposite effect. 

I don’t feel a particular connection, but he is kind, polite, and consistent, so I agree to see him again, but let him know that I will contact him. 

In the meantime, I have met a delightful twenty-one year old Australian girl and I think they might really hit it off!  She has a party coming up, so I extend the invite to Mr. Young, to see if I can’t find him someone more age-appropriate. 

At the party, he only has eyes for me, and it’s tough to tell him I brought him out for someone else, so I decide instead to keep things friendly with drinks at a nearby bar.

We take some shots and he goes to the restroom.  A vivacious woman at the next table chats me up and asks how old I am.  I ask her if she wouldn’t mind asking me again, once my date has returned, so I can unlock the mystery of how old he might be. 

When she asks, he turns to me and says,

“Does it matter to you?” 

I respond that it matters a little, as I am probably looking for different things than a man in his mid-twenties in Hollywood. 

“Twenty.”