The mountain man/hippie type:
Hair. Long hair.
- - -
Tucking it into my pocket, I soon forgot about it, lost in the hectic Monday.
I try to be generic and converse with him but our initial conversation goes like this: (me in purple, he in blue)
"Hi! How are... good are you? you?
"I'm great! How is... How is work? ...your dog?"
As you can see, completely jumbled. And awkward. I don't like having mixed up conversations.
Cautiously avoiding his ever longing gaze (trust me, I know what I'm talking about here) he hands me his business card saying that he wants me to call him should I ever get the low down on a malamute puppy for sale.
He'll "entertain me".
Immediately, visions of a creepy cabin in the woods enters my mind.
A silence ensues. I stare at his beard. His long hair. His beard again.
I decide, facial hair is weird.
Then I do the most logic thing; I change the subject back to puppies. I wish, in this moment that I was wearing my faux diamond ring.
If ever questioned, (as I often am to my relationship status), I could quip:
"Yes, my non existent boyfriend gave it to me"
It would work charms! Wonders!
But alas. We talked about puppies. We talked about finding puppies on craigslist. We talked about exchanging a puppy for blown glass. (He's a glass blower).
Upon leaving, Mountain Man asks my name. I tell him and he says: