Wiffle Ball

There are things I forget.

I remember being asked out to dinner—friendly enough guy—visited me in my booth where I was working. New York in February was my usual.

I was alone, of course. He saw this—sniffed it on me somehow. Nice enough guy—funny guy—youngish. Nice enough looks to ensure you’d not be embarrassed about your evening’s choices come the morning after.

I forget his name.

I remember he sold a whiffle ball game. In my mind, I called him “Whiffle Ball Game Guy”. Nothing overt. No undercurrents. But on that third day, during his daily stop for casual discourse, I told him what I had planned for the evening. He had client dinners also. He asked me what I had planned for the next evening. I told him that I planned to be on an airplane back to sunny California. His smile cut off like a stem between scissors. He said that’s too bad, because I wanted to ask you to dinner. That’s when the customers came into the booth and made the awkward moment disappear. Go ahead, he told me, motioning to the customers. I’ll see you later.