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Leslie From L.A., You Deserve the Best. Leslie from L.A., My friends and I were smoking outside The Brass tonight, feet from you, and we decided, with curiosity, to guess what music you were listening to on your phone as you stood there in the drizzling , in a dark cap and coat, smoking casually. seemingly content, delightfully unassuming. Upon our daring intrusion and request, you were kind enough to indulge us, to speak with us, and you let me listen to your music, The Carpenters (not even close to my guess, and, unfortunately, I am not entirely sure that was the name of the band, though I'm sure it was something similar to that at least). Divine, if you would let me use such a word for the gift of , folksy sound that you gave me. A short conversation ensued between us all. You said that you, your dog, as well as your father to some extent, loved Southeast since you moved here years ago, and you are all the more lovely for saying so. You also mention that your date, who was still inside, did not seem as interested in you as you were in him. This seemed absurd, both to me and my friends. You were beautiful, grounded, and engaging. We all exchanged names--I was , the xxx to your immediate left, with short hair, dark glasses, a checkered scarf and a black coat. With your cigarette finished, we sent you back inside with our best wishes. My friends, as abusive as they are compassionate, and sometimes knowing me even better than I know myself, encouraged me to at least head back in and say good night to you. A bold move, no doubt. xxx I would have never imagined on my own. When xxx is on a date there is no room for a third. But my knees began to shake, and only then did I realize that I did want to see you again, Leslie from L.A. With several paces, back and forth before the neon-lit windows, I finally mustered the courage to enter the pub and look for you. I wandered through the whole place, between the narrow isles and the sea of faceless patrons, no doubt (or more like hopefully) seeming like nothing but another causal individual, searching for mySainte Adele hot girls sex party, mature sex in Champaign all the while feeling like a , lurking, hunting for an opportunity to steal something of value; you, Leslie, from L.A. You know that I did not find you; logged by a night of drink and hearty conversation with old friends, electric with the thought of speaking to you as you sat there, across from your less-than-impressive date, with my desire to see you again, to possibly become the man seated across from you at your next date, infinitely more interested than your current engagement could possibly manage; I have to confess, I am kicking myself for never finding you. Perhaps it's for the best. I am far from a perfect creature. Maybe more words from my mouth and some unfortunate lighting and you would've run back into the pub, thanking every god ever named for the apathetic man waiting for you inside. Maybe a similar scene, our roles reversed,
nsa head blow me and leave loking for a woman who can give good oral and minus me running into your date's arms. Maybe the possibility is too delicious or even absurd for someone like me, and so it should remain untouched, untested. But I don't want it to end like that, a missed opportunity--more to the point, my missed opportunity. What is a missed connection but a regret? A wish for more courage. I wish I had had the wherewithal to stop you before you returned to the pub, Leslie from L.A., to tell you that you seemed delightful and that I am interested in you. I wish that I had found you, inside, and made a raging fool of myself for you in front of your date, to let you know that I wanted to see you again. Because, for all my varied, prolific flaws, I would rather try for something great than settle for anything less. I hope, no matter what comes of my words here, that you feel the same. In all , ~i
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