I was doing laundry on Friday, being all Cool Mysterious Girl with my long black scarf, headphones, and book, when this adorable guy comes in and flashes me the sweetest, brightest grin of all time. He disappears into the laudry room behind me (I was in the common area on the couch), and I kind of smile to myself and resume reading.

Minutes later, he re-emerges from the room, half-approaches me with the same cute smile, then turns back into the room. He re-emerges a second time, and I can tell he wants to say something to me, so I take off my headphones and give him my most luminous "Okay, spill it, muffin, or this is going to get weird" smile.

"You wouldn't happen to have any quarters, would you?" He asks, in this charming, nervous kind of tone.

"No, sorry. All I have is a twoonie." I say, saddened that I can't be of any help.

"Yeah, that's all I have, too." Again, his warm-and-fuzzies-inducing grin appears.

"Well, if you put it in the pop machine, it'll give you back four quarters in change." I suggest, hoping to save this poor boy from having to hang his clothes outside to dry, and by dry, I mean freeze solid in the Siberian air.

"Hey, yeah!" He exclaims with enthusiasm, rushing towards said pop machine with a joyful gleam in his eye, a look that says "Hurrah! Behold this mighty dispenser of canned carbonated miracles! It is my saviour of saviours; my hero; my Messiah." He looks over his shoulder at me and asks "What kind of pop do you like?"

I turn the question over in my mind, thinking of all the connotations my various replies could have. Coke? No. What could be thought of as classic could also be thought of as boring. Grape? No. Clearly, I'm much too old to be drinking fruit flavoured sodas. Too juvenile. Dr Pepper? Absolutely not. I don't want him to construe my thirst for zippy, sassy pep as promiscuity. Finally, I settle on a neutral choice. "Diet Coke." I tell him, allowing a smile to curve my lips.

He plinks his coin into the machine and makes his selection. He bends to retrieve his prize, and I discreetly check out his backside. Gold star.

He gets his change and moves back towards me. He puts the can down on the coffee table in front of me, and says "I'm not thirsty."

I smile, amused by the offer. "No one's ever bought me a drink that didn't have alcohol in it before."

"Well," he says, "I don't like to get girls liquored up on the first date." With that, he goes back into the laundry room.

I'm blushing, I know. I can feel my cheeks get warm, and I'm aware of this silly smitten grin on my face. I try to force it away, but I can't.

When he comes back, he say's "I'm Patrick, by the way." He reaches out his hand, and I place my hand in it. I notice how much bigger and how strong his is.

"Sarah." I say.

"Lovely to meet you, Sarah." He lets go. "Maybe I'll see you around some time?"

"Yeah, maybe." I reply, trying my best to sound coy, but interested. He turns and walks toward the entrance. He looks back as he opens the door, and gives me one more grin before he disappears into the cold.

[...]

I am never, ever, EVER complaining about having to do laundry again.

Miss Black

Listening to: "Haunted" by Poe.

Reading: "Idoru" still.

Watching: Not a new Alias, unfortunately. Fucking reruns.

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Miss Black also contributes to a David Anders/Sark site under the name Chaton Espion. Feel free to visit her there if you'd like to witness the terrifying depths of obsession.