Wait, wait, wait. Did I say I fell in love yesterday? Around 3 p.m.?



Well. It happened again at 10 p.m. I fell. In love. Again.



What are the odds now, really? I mean, twice in week, OK. Twice in one day? That hasn’t happened since…junior high!



This boy – let’s call him Melancholy Hipster Boy – had a big, flashing, white grin (when he wasn’t looking melancholy over some girl who recently broke his heart. WHATever.).



He was flirty and funny (when he wasn’t looking sadly into his glass of wine. WHATever.).



He had the cleanest, most stylish apartment of any male I’ve ever met (and yes, he’s straight.).



And, like me, and unlike Backcountry Ski God, this one talks a mile a minute (when not gazing forlornly off into the distance. WHATever.).



Also, he is not shy. Pas de tout. MHB lost no chance to touch me when he had the opportunity, including slipping his hand under my pants leg, putting his hand around my calf, and asking – while looking straight into my eyes -- “Do these boots go all the way up to your thighs?”



But will he call me? That is the question. He may be too busy bemoaning his poor, hip, broken heart. (I, personellement, have no time for those stupid things anymore, now that I seem to have BURST, all of a sudden, out of my cave.) Or he may not like me at all, fondling aside.



Fern Boy, the long-lost friend who introduced us, stayed mum on the topic of what MHB may have said about me during my numerous bathroom breaks at the Hopvine last night. For my part, when MHB wandered off, I practically drooled into FB’s lap. “He is sooo sexy!”



But, after we had left MHB to his melancholy self, and FB dropped me off chez moi, he muttered, “If anyone can cure him of this broken heart, it’s you.”



Thank you for the vote of confidence, FB! Just tell him to hurry up and figure it out before I fall in love again (countdown five minutes).