The party was 5-7, open bar. Needless to say, by the time we were leaving, my whistle was sufficiently wet. We ran into some guys on the way out, and the hat apparently impressed one of them because we started chatting. The details of the conversation are fuzzy, but we exchanged numbers. He was entered into my phone has "Hot Brown Tom", because, well, he was hot, he was brown, and his name was Tom. Creative, I know.
We texted back and forth. Sunday night he called. He's 25 - strike one. I don't know why I've been meeting so many toddlers lately. Gotta stop wading in the kiddie pool. When I asked what he did, he said he majored in computer science but was now "taking classes" in biology, psychology, etc. at LaGuardia Community College. Um, that sounds like finishing you bachelor's to me - strike two. He lives in Queens - strike three. I'm not crossing boroughs for this kid. And just in case I had any thoughts about giving him a chance:
HBT: I can read minds.
Me: Oh yeah?
HBT: Yeah, I know what you're thinking about right now.
Me: Oh really, what's that?
HBT: You're picturing me naked.
Me: Wrong. I'm playing online solitaire.
While we were on the phone I still said I'd let him take me out, but I was busy all week, and he was away for the weekend. I was hoping all was forgotten, but the following Wednesday he left a voicemail. It was marked urgent - I didn't even know you could do that. I thought maybe the red exclamation point meant my voicemail was full. Nope, HBT had to tell me immediately:
Hey, someone randomly told me there was a super hot girl at this number, so you should call me. It's Tom. Lay-tah.
Yes, Tom, later. Later than never.
2 comments:
and I thought HBT stood for Hot Boy Toy!
ooh, no, but I'd like to find one of those!
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