She was everything I wanted, everything I needed.  I saw her and my heart lifted and stopped.  My breath became shallow.  So beautiful.
“Hi.”
That’s what I should say.  Simple, but effective, at least, so I’ve been told.  Fuck.  She’s going to leave, god damn it, what the fuck is my problem.
“Hey, wait a minute.”
Yeah, that’ll work:
“Hold on, I want to tell you something…”
“Yeah, what?”
“Um…”
            “Hi.”
Then what?
            “Hi,” she’ll say, curiously.  Her eyes will say, “What do you want?”  And what can I say?
My eyes will say, “you.”  And she’ll freak.
            “I see you’re looking at guitars… You know I play guitar…”
            Too bad she’s not looking at guitars.  She’s not doing anything, just standing there.   All I could say is that I like her sweater and the way her hair flips.  She looks intelligent though, a little artsy—just enough.  Quirky beautiful, the kind I like.  The kind that’s not too daunting, not too prosaic, approachable, yet special, and hopefully she doesn’t know it.
            “You’re beautiful.”
            My eyes are saying it, but her eyes aren’t hearing it.  Fuck, I can’t stare her down, but I got to get her attention.
            “Woops, sorry about knocking over your display there.”
            Then make some smart-ass remark.  But I hate smart-asses, and she hates them too, which is why she’s perfect.  No, the buffoon approach never works—this one I’m sure of.  Look at how she’s eyeing everything, she’s summing it up.  But not sizing it up.  Just absorbing.  She’s intelligent, I can tell.
            “You like Dylan?”
            Of course she does, they all do—well, the type I like.  What I wouldn’t give to play her Dylan, and kiss her.  But who can open a conversation with that?
            “Can I kiss you?”
            “Sure!”
            “Really?”
            “You kidding me?  I’ve been waiting here this entire time for you to ask me that.”
            “Wow…”
            We’d kiss.  (Yes, subjunctive, I am fantasizing here.)
            “That was great, let’s stop beating around the bush, stud, let’s fuck.”
            In all my fantasies, the more forward, the more vulgar.  But I don’t want to fuck…  I mean, I do, but I just want to talk to her.  I’m willing to woo, I’m willing to give time, effort, commitment.  LOVE ME DAMN IT.
            “Love me, damn it!”
            I actually said that.  Why?  Because I knew it wouldn’t come of anything.  But I managed to get her attention; the buffoon approach always gets you that far.  But of course, as soon as she starts to look at me, I don’t look at her.  I was just saying it to the air.
            “LOVE ME!”
            She heard that, now I mock whistle.  She’s weirded out.  Good, she’s normal.  Oh wait, I’m not, fuck.  She left.  She should have.  I should go after her.  Naw…  I’ve already done enough.
            “Oh hey, I’m sorry, I was…  Nevermind, I’m… jesus…  No, I mean, I’m not jesus.  Haha, I mean not that…  I’m not religious.  Whatever.  Jesus.  It’s just…  Okay, deep breath.  It’s just, I didn’t know what to say, I mean, I still don’t.  I thought of everything back there.  And you know, this is nothing new.  I think a lot, but I never do.  But this time…  I had to, I HAD to see you.  I had to come out here and see you.  I had to see…  I don’t know, anything, I have to actually start living for real.  I can’t keep doing these stupid fantasies.  Fuck, why am I writing this when I should be out there trying to find you—the person I want, the person to make my heart lift and stop, I mean…  Jesus.”
            And then I shot myself.  Blood gushed everywhere, on her nice sweater.  And, you know what’s the biggest irony?  She really did want to fuck, and she wasn’t vulgar, and she was everything I wanted, and I just let her walk out.  I always let them walk out.  And I just keep writing, listening to my Dylan CDs, hoping someday a woman will read this, and think: “that’s me.  That’s what I do.  And I want someone too.  I’m dying for someone; enough that I want to shoot myself.   I got to find this guy…”
            Oh right, the irony part:  She’ll really shoot me.  Crazy stalker.  That’s right, she’s a stalker, and not too far from me.  I’m a stalker.  That’s what I am, right?  That’s why you won’t approach me??  I fit the fucking profile don’t I?  Then lock me up; I don’t really want to be taunted with society.
            I’m such a sad, sad, sad creature.
            LOVE ME DAMN IT.
            “Hi.”
            “Hi,” she flips a flip of hair with her finger out of her too beautiful face.
            “You know…”
            “…yeah, I do.  I know.”
            “Man, that is so nice to hear.”  She just takes my arm, and we walk out, together.
            Then she shoots me.