“I think I just met the happiest person in the world!” I tell myself as I ponder my movie-esque meet-cute on my walk back to the office.

Or maybe not the happiest person in the world. Is happy an oxymoron?

Did not plan on taking a two-hour lunch. Did not plan on meeting a guy with a similar name to mine reach for the caramel macchiato and pesto sandwich identical to mine and which was actually mine because it turns out they made two orders under the same name which was not my name like my actual life is inside of a goddamn romance novel.

Oh, no. I’m romanticizing a moment again.

How badly do I need romancing?

Not really at all.

Don’t need that headache. Don’t need those problems.

A put on, a cliche, a badly needed moment always turned into a farce.

I press the elevator for floor five and when I’m almost towards my desk, I duck down, crouch, and then walk the long way around to avoid locking eyes with my boss and making small talk with my coworkers. For the past two months I get here late, wear sweatpants and am always known to leave early.

My daydreaming hasn’t ceased. I’ve pretended the early afternoon at Starbucks hasn’t ended, that the guy whose radiant Orb glowed wasn’t just a figment of my life, a time in time.

How will I know? By Whitney Houston starts going off like a monologue in my head. Ha! You won’t ever. They say you just have to jump in head first and put both feet forward like it’s that easy.

Maybe I’m just too hung up on the past. Or all the fucked up shit that could happen.

I have moments like this with strangers all the time. Dreamy, fleeting moments with strangers that make me feel alive for a couple days. Remind me that I was once young. Then eventually I’ll tell myself it’s for the best. And pretend they never existed. But what about this guy? This guy exuding… everythingness. After the seventy-two hours are up, will I forget you, happy guy, smiling guy, What bring joy.