As soon as I left the party, I tried to figure out what had just happened. I was so distracted, I got lost on my way back to the freeway.
I kept replaying the night. First the pick-up line which wasn’t really a pick-up line. Then dancing and random compliments. Then more dancing. Then singing along to Los Prisioneros’ “Tren Al Sur” and really meaning “no ves que estoy contento, no ves que estoy feliz?” And finally the anti-climactic goodbye at my car. A hug and a nice to meet you. But no phone numbers.
On the twenty minute drive from Pico Rivera back to Palms I wondered if I had misread the cues. If everything felt so right, then why didn’t he ask for my number? And why was I such a weenie that I didn’t just give it to him?
As I re-counted the chisme to my sister the next morning over menudo (sans tripe, ugh), I explained that all hope was not lost.
“I think I’m going to see him next week at a Los Lobos concert,” I told her. “He also has a copy of Puro Pedo. My name is in that. If he even knows how to use Google he can find me… but that might be weird. There’s always the hostess and M, the mutual contact. He can ask them for my contact info… but would that be stalkerish?”
“Don’t sweat it,” she said. “Whatever happens, happens.”
I took her advice.