Part the Second: She has a ‘crush’ on you

If you haven’t read FCN’s account of the traumatizing experience I had with a young woman at the campus canteen a couple quarters of a moon ago, please take the time to read it because it is an important backdrop for today’s post.

No, I am serious about this. You can always push your browser’s back button or, if you are using Opera, Mozilla Firefox or Internet Explorer 7, create a new tab and view the page concurrently with this one. Simply push your mouse’s middle button or click normally while holding the ctrl button (Option on a Mac). Or you can right click the above link and press “Open in New Window.” Whatever your style is, get it done now because I won’t keep typing until you are caught up on my love life.

OK. Now that you are up to speed, I can tell you what happened yesterday morning. I had just finished a heady discussion of the properties of water in my science class (why do these things always follow science?) and was enjoying the light breeze in my face as I walked across the street to do a little lunch hour purchasing (note the difference between shopping and purchasing).

As I walked, minding my innocence, on a concrete sidewalk, I passed a couple of Hispanic girls, who looked completely self absorbed. As is my custom when I pass anyone, but especially young women, I smiled and nodded my head.

Instead of walking on, engrossed in their Ipod or cellular phone conversation, as most people do, these young women stopped. One of the girls, who I later found out was named Samantha, asked “you’re the guy who had his picture taken on the cell phone, right?”

So now the whole world knew about Lindsey’s pink mobile? Maybe the FCN readership is bigger than I imagined.

Did this mean my photo was circulating around? Was it the desktop image of every perverted female in town? Did the picture turn out ok? Did the crumbs on my teeth show through?

“Yes, a young woman took my picture a week or so ago. I believe her name was Lindsey,” I smiled, but couldn’t hold the curiosity out of my features.

The girls giggled and looked at one another with an expression I will never understand. “Well, our friend wants your phone number.”

Here we go again. First my picture, then my number. Those are both online, you know. Why doesn't this girl come out of the woodwork and meet me personally? Does the girl really exist or is this a vast conspiracy perpetuated by the campus females to trip me up?

Why would a collection of girls exert any effort to trip me up?

Alas, beauty is stronger then the intellect and I succumbed, entering my digits into Samantha’s mobile for, I was told, later transmission to the mystery crush.

In order to unravel as much of the mystery as possible, I decided to keep asking questions. “So,” I asked, “what’s the name of this girl, the one who has the crush on me?” Tact was never my strong point.

“Luce,” came the answer. At least I think it’s spelled that way. It could have been “Loose.”

“Okay,” I continued my inquiry, “where do you guys hang out? Maybe I could swing a visit and say hi sometime.” Maybe.

“Oh, Luce doesn’t go to school here anymore. She’s working…” Samantha’s voice trailed off, leaving an awkward silence.

To this point, I’d forgotten to stop smiling and my face was beginning to feel tight; I relaxed my features.

And so the conversation with Samantha and her unnamed friend concluded. We exchanged inconsequential pleasantries and parted ways leaving me with only a little more data about the girl with the mystery crush. I’d given out my phone number – a bargaining chip, my brother had informed me, in the relationship scene – and was still perplexed about the entire situation.

Questions, old and new, plagued the rest of my purchase-driven excursion. Was this some kind of conspiracy to get Luce and me to go out? Did Luce really exist or is there a band of young women desperate for my attention? How could a girl who doesn’t go to school know me well enough to establish a crush? Why was the text on Samantha’s cellular set to Spanish? And, perhaps most haunting, when will the crazy collegiate women attack me again?