Was He Hitting On Me?

So I'm at the gym. I don't want to get into it, because I hate it when guys talk about working out. It's irritating. And very douchebaggy. It's something I try to avoid, like Sarah Jessica Parker movies or guys who put gel in their hair.

The gym always plays awful music. And almost everytime I'm there, I hear a song I've never heard before or since. It's always some kind of 80's techno-opera-country. It never makes any sense I don't know where it all comes from. I've heard a woman singing about her sandals and a man crooning about roller skates. I always wanted to ask what station they had on, but I never did. That's probably because I was usually complaining about the water fountain not working or the A/C going out. Or both.

Okay, so I'm sitting on a bench, listing to a particularly odd sounding song that seemed to be combining a synthesizer, a harp and a triangle to a woman's voice that could best be described as "sounding German." I'm sitting there, furrowing in my brow with confusino and looking up to the speakers when it happens.

There's an older guy on the bench a few feet to my left. He has a mustache. His clothes aren't memorable, just a t-shirt and shorts. I hear his voice.

"Hey," he says.
I turn to look at him.
"What is this crap?" He motions up toward the music.
"I have no idea," I offer.
"Well, I think you and I could make better music together than this."

I nodded and thought nothing of it. When I mentioned this to a friend later, he said "dude, that guy wanted to fuck you." Now, I have no idea. For all I know, he could be a great drummer. Or play a mean guitar. Maybe he was looking to fill out a band. Or maybe he actually meant better music and not slow, passionate, candlelit sex. I'll never know. And you'll never care.