The Adorable Stalkers

For four hours I played wingwoman for my new roommate the other night. It began with an invitation to play darts with two gentlemen at our local pub. Now, I rarely back down from a challenge, especially one involving cute boys. So naturally, I accepted. My future teammate was cute, athletic, and Southern. I was drafted after he watched me toss a bullseye on the practice round. It would be my last of the evening.

Despite successfully blowing three games of darts and three foosball tournaments to my roommate and her target, my partner admitted to being “very impressed” by my knowledge of MLB comeback stories, NFL draft picks and NCAA basketball.( At least, the Kansas Mizzou rivalry.) My roommate said he appeared smitten. Then it was time to leave. He said we should do this again soon. I agreed, watched him fidget, gathered my things and walked outside.

“What happened? Why didn’t he get your number,” my roommate asked as we walked home. “He totally liked you. I don’t get it.”

Neither do I. But this is not the first or even second time this has happened to me in SF. And it’s no longer disappointing; it’s simply the elimination round. My new target is not a fumbler from Kansas, but rather a boy who has just as much follow through with his promises as his pitches, a boy who isn’t afraid to step up to the plate and strike out.