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.

Was She Hitting on Me?

So, I'm getting my haircut by this woman. Not a fancy place. A $20 haircut. We were chatting as people in this situation often do and she tells me that she has a daughter and that she's divorced.

"It's hard" she says, "to meet people these days."

She finishes the cut and is just trimming the back with a razor, and adding final touches.

"I see you have some hair on your ears," she says. Sadly, this is true. I don't know why, but my ears grow hair like crazy. And not from the inside, I mean all around the outside of my ears.

"I know," I say. "It's weird. My wife won't shave it for me so I usually do it myself. And I tend to end up bleeding."

"I'll take care of it for you," she offers and proceeds to gently shave my ears for me. "That's better," she says.

"Thanks."

"Well, if I was your wife, I'd shave your ears for you anytime," she says.

There was a significant silence. And not one of those comfortable silences between two people who know each other well. It was that other kind, that puts people in cold sweats and makes their genitals shrink. The kind of silence that usually follows someone saying "I like you as a friend," or "I'm late."

I thanked her for the cut, paid and headed out, left to wonder this: Was she hitting on me?