Evening Latte

I bought a concert ticket because Mississippi Studios is a good venue and David Ramirez is a talented artist. I showed up, bought a pint of the darkest beer on the menu, and found a seat in the small balcony because I’m an old man who prefers sitting during concerts.

The opener (Sharon Silva) was good enough that added her to my Tidal artist list after the set, then I settled in for some people watching. As usual, groups of people who had skipped the opener shuffled hopefully up the stairs to check for open balcony seats (spoiler: if you wait that long, there won’t be any).

One group was a couple women who looked a little younger than me. They scanned the balcony, and I met eyes with one of them. She smiled, I briefly smiled back, then I looked elsewhere to avoid being creepy. Finding no empty seats, they retreated downstairs.

A few minutes later, one of the women from that pair came back up the stairs. This time, she didn’t look around, just started climbing the stairs for the seat rows. I watched out of the corner of my eye, and she purposefully turned into the aisle behind mine, strode to the end, knelt next to my shoulder, and with her face about two feet from mine, asked:

“Are you single?”

An aside: it used to be a running gag with a friend how often I got hit on at concerts. I’m a decent looking guy, but a significant factor is that I put off zero aggressive or desperate vibes since I’m not looking to even meet anyone, let alone hook up or date. I’m literally there for the music. Another friend also recently pointed out that I’m almost always solo, which probably makes me much easier to approach than a guy with a couple buddies in tow.

My default line of thinking in situations like this: “The chances of anything good coming out of this are low. If we hit it off, I’m probably going to have to have the at-least-moderately awkward ‘I’m asexual’ talk. Double uncomfortable if I have to bring it up because she makes a move. No matter how it comes up, she’ll probably lose all interest in me. It would definitely be wasted time for her, and maybe for me.”

However, I’m making an effort to be less cynical, so the mental counter was, “What’s the harm? We might chat for a bit after the show, maybe go somewhere after and have a proper conversation. Even if she’s interested in me in ways I won’t reciprocate, it could potentially still be a bit of fun for both of us.”

The above played out in about two seconds, then I smiled and said, “I am.”

She replied, “Great! My friend is downstairs and really wants to meet you.”

My grin got a little wider at the junior high vibe of the request. I briefly considered asking if she had some notebook paper with Yes/No/Maybe on it, but (probably wisely) decided against it. I followed Iris (not her actual name) down the stairs. About halfway, my sight line dropped below the balcony so I could see the main floor. I immediately noticed 5-6 pairs of eyes staring at me with barely-contained mirth. Turns out Iris had a crew. Of course.

Iris walked me up to Hera (again, fake name) and introduced me. The three of us made small talk for a few minutes, with Iris oddly talking more about herself than facilitating a conversation between Hera and me. Then the house lights dimmed, and the crowd cheered as David and his band came out. After a brief exchanged glance with Hera, Iris retreated to the rest of the group, who had been keeping a not-so-subtle eye on the proceedings.

David introduced himself and started playing. The floor was pretty packed, so I stood just behind and to the side of Hera. I kept what I considered a respectful but fairly close distance. The crowd did some normal beginning-of-show shuffling, and she ended up behind someone taller than her. After checking to make sure I wouldn’t be blocking anyone else’s view, I suggested we move over a few feet so she could see better. We did, and she smiled and said thanks.

She had a drink, but didn’t seem buzzed. However, her friends had obviously been doing some boozing: they were dancing…enthusiastically during even slower tracks and yelling “Woooo!” very loudly after songs. The fact Mississippi Studios is a small venue made it stand out that much more. Hera said they’d decided to come in spur of the moment from the attached bar even though none of them were familiar with David’s music.

From what little I’d learned, she seemed bright and interesting, so I wanted to talk for real, but I also wanted to watch the concert. As a result, we were basically limited to exchanging a few sentences between songs. Not exactly sparkling conversation.

After 5-6 songs, Iris came over and said something into Hera’s ear. She relayed that the group was getting feisty and wanted to go somewhere they could dance. I smirked because I assumed it an excuse to extract herself from a situation that wasn’t unfolding as she’d anticipated. Which was fine: I’d rather someone politely bow out than continue to spend time with me out of obligation.

As they were preparing to leave, Hera asked, “Hey, can I give you my number?” I was genuinely surprised since I was so sure she was trying to get out. I handed her my phone, and she entered her full name and phone number. She smiled and wished me a good night while following her (still loud) friends through the front door.

I put the situation on the mental back burner as I enjoyed the show. David played for about two hours and talked openly about his relationship with music over the preceding few years. The set included a couple of my favorite tracks, and combined with his genuineness and vulnerability, it was a moving show.

A little after noon the next day, I sent Hera this:

Perhaps a bit formal/wordy, but honestly, that’s me. If someone is put off by that, we probably don’t need to hang.

As of this writing (I just realized it’s been exactly two months), I haven’t received a reply. That didn’t bother me initially, but after telling the story to a few friends, it irked me a bit. She’s the one who chose to interject herself into my life by having her friend retrieve me from the balcony where I was having a good/fun evening. In what little time we had to chat, she seemed into the situation, and she was interested enough in a follow-up that she (presumably) gave me her number. But after finding out I was ace, she didn’t have the courtesy to send me any sort of reply. Even a reaction emoji would have been something.

For better or worse, I’ve become pretty accustomed to some version of this. That’s why my initial reaction is usually cynicism. I generally find the humor in it; as a mentor once told me, “At a certain point, you have to either laugh or cry.” I understand that I’m weird and might be the first ace person (or at least ace man) of my flavor most people will have met, so it’s difficult for me to gin up any real ire or indignation.

In a way, it’s a catch-22-ish favor: the kind of person I want to get to know is one who will endure some awkwardness in the name of courtesy/respect by responding to texts like that. Since she’s the kind of person who doesn’t, she’s probably not a person in whom I want to invest any real time or energy.

Or at least that’s why I tell myself to rationalize away some of the rejection. Like most people, part of me will always hold out hope for that perfect night (my version is a deep conversation that goes early into the morning), so I’ll probably respond the same way next time, even if it’s against my better judgement.