Long casual exhale: "Great night for a bike ride," I understated to a horrific degree. Revisiting that line shivers my blood because I actually don't like using the word bike when refereeing to a motorcycle, and I don't much like riding at night. But I said it because I was working outside my comfort zone; I thought I had a chance with the girl I'd been working on for two years.
The girl didn't respond. She, along with the three other girls in the gaggle, stood there, stiff, looking frightened.
It wasn't as if I'd have bet the ranch on the girl agreeing to go for a ride that night, but come on, I'd cleaned the house, bought and prepared the food, sent the invitations, I'm the star of the play, the host of the party, one of the few single guys there, and not to mention (To me "not to mention" is one of those things we say and write that makes no sense, because if you are wanting not to mention it, you wouldn't mention it, would you? Same with the road sign, Hidden Drive, if the drive is hidden, you don't need the sign), I'm the owner of a cool as heck motorcycle, all of which I'm sure you'd agree are some serious creeds for girl getting; And what happened when I put it all together in a tidy little package? I whiffed.
Now if you'd been watching all that I've just described in a movie, you'd probably feel sorry for the guy playing the part of me. That is, until the sweet, pretty, unassuming, heroine enters the scene lower screen right and confidently says to the guy who is playing the part of me, "I'll go." If that happened, then you'd feel really good for the guy playing the part of me, wouldn't you? Do you know, that is exactly what happened.