#GLBC

Shoot Your Shot

I have been staring at her back for 15 minutes. Kobi-pink chiffon blouse, decorated with two lines of frills, paving way for chestnut hair that glistens under the warm lighting. Natural curls sway left and right when she turns to chat with her friends. Each time, this gives me access to a fraction of her side face, but only a small fraction. It looks fair and rosy.

Her hair tendrils fly due to wind from the fan next to my seat. I put a hand in front of it and the wind hits my hand with force, draining the warmth from it. Her hair is flying less wildly now; she tucks a piece behind an ear. She doesn't wear an earring.

I take a sip of my long-forgotten coffee. It is cold like coke, bitter like brussel sprouts. Pushing it away, I take out my phone to catch my friends up on my current situation.

"Attractive lady in café," I type so succinctly, one might mistake it for a news headline.

Sure enough, the first reply I got is, "I was half-expecting a link somewhere, dude, you gotta talk more naturally. Anyways you got pics?"

The audacity!

"I was joking bro," he adds. "How's she like?"

My lips twitch. I pull them back stiffly. "Haven't spoken to her yet."

At this moment I see Kevin going online. The words "Kevin is typing..." flash for a brief couple of seconds and a capitalised text wall appears, "THEN WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE GO SPEAK TO HER NOW".

The letters are of such uniform width and height that my eyes hurt and my head rings. I know Kevin deeply wishes me to pluck up my courage for once, but I'm just not capable of doing so and they know it.

Speaking has never been a strength of mine. Whenever I meet new people my brain shuts down the function to form sentences. I stammer, I stutter, I splutter. The single reason why I missed out on that school president election is that I couldn't face such a huge audience (other than that we all thought I would have made a much better candidate). That's also why I keep my friend circle to two. 

Perhaps that dizzy feeling is not because of the letters, but the message, that the only way to make progress is to speak to her. I understand I should stop hesitating constantly and letting opportunities slip away. Deep down, I wish I had the confidence.

Gently she swirls her coffee, lifts it to her lips and downs almost all of it - I can see that there is still some left from the way she sets the cup back down. 

Before I realise what this means, she drinks the last bit. Her bag gets picked up from the table and she is about to stand up...

By some mysterious impulse I rush over to her. She looks me up and down with curiosity as I attempt at sleeking my hair and take out my phone. "Hey," I say breathlessly, "mind if you give me your number?"

Her eyes glow happily. "Sure."

This is too good to be true. I, a first-timer at shooting my shot, get accepted in less than a second. 

Now back to where I'm staring off into space envisioning God knows what. 

The attractive lady has just finished her coffee and is packing her bag. It's now or never.

In awkward steps I manage to manoeuvre to her table. She barely notices me while she rummages through her bag. Even my cough seems to quiver.

"May have I your number - I mean, may you have your number - no, may I you have number..." My voice trails off as I come to my senses at how I have made a complete fool of myself. 

It's no use. Introverts can never succeed in hitting people up.

You can do this. A small Kevin-like voice pipes up. Believe in yourself.

Gazing into her eyes, I take a deep breath. "I think we would get along. May I have your number?"

Her brows relax and she smiles. Then she gets off from the bar chair and hands me a Post-it: 555-1234. Good you finally mustered the courage, fair gentleman whom I have been admiring from afar. 

I look up from the piece of paper, wide-eyed but grinning.