Music Therapy

“Play me a song,” he says, handing me the ukulele I haphazardly threw on the table when my phone rang to announce his spontaneous visit.

I take the proffered instrument and hesitate. What can I play that won’t be charged with meaning? I still don’t know what caused him to run the first time. How not to jinx the new oddly platonic form of this relationship?

I strum the first chords of Fuck You. He laughs with recognition when I get to the lyrics. I avoid his eyes, my face starts to flush. He makes no personal connection to the song – why would he? No one over thinks things to the same level that I do.

When the final chord has stopped ringing, he applauds me. I don’t mention that this is the song I strummed furiously to get over him, when tears and beers and friends would no longer suffice.

I used to daydream about playing that song to his face. I feel, secretly, cleansed. I guess there’s a hidden benefit to the attempt at being friends. Therapy, bitches.

Suburbia

I, frankly, don’t get approached in public very often. Even in bars, land of the creepy pick-ups, I’m not the person someone heads to first to “chat up”. I think I give off an intimidating air. However, after standing in a suburban GO station for only five minutes while waiting for a friend to pick me up, I became part of the following exchange.

RANDOM MALE STRANGER: Excuse me.
ME (about to inform him that I don’t work or live here and have no idea when the next bus is coming): Um, yes?
RMS: My name is Robbie. Can I call you sometime?
ME: Um, no.
RMS: No?
ME: No.
RMS: Well, I had to try. You looked pretty cute. Standing there all alone.
ME: No. Thanks for the compliment, buuuuut no.

“Standing there all alone?” Is this some reference to how attractive vulnerability is? And why go for the big ask (my number) right away? Introduce yourself! Strike up a conversation! Subtle flirting is disappearing into the land of lost arts.