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Books and Pretty Girls

So I'm at the used bookstore with a stack of books, and who should wander into the fantasy and SF section but an absolutely edible pretty girl in glasses. I'm not talking a dolled up pretty girl, folks, I'm talking the real dressed down deal. She wandered in straight out of my juvenile fantasies into my juvenile fantasy of meeting a pretty girl at the bookstore. Finally, there she is.

All the usual male reactions kicked in, especially the bachelor ones.

All I had to do was strike up a conversation, right? Right.

No, I didn't strike up a conversation. I'm married, thirty years too old for her, and not full of game. My inner fantasy bachelor engaged in her in conversation, picked her up, and ensued. (Although, really, my inner bachelor would have frozen up, or ruined the whole thing, because I was really good at doing that.)

What I did do was collect up my books, because I was done shopping anyway, said "Excuse me," as I shimmied out, and left her to browse undisturbed, because I'm not a total dick. Then I didn't stare at her, or ogle, or anything, because I'm considerate. That's her little safe space and I wanted her to have it.