Today I got asked for my number. As in, I think was hit on. I think.
I was at the museum trying to renew my membership when I had to explain why I deserved the student rate. She asked what I studied. I said epidemiology. (I don’t study epidemiology, but that sounds more interesting than what I do study.)
She asked if that meant I studied skin diseases.
No, that isn’t what it means or what I study. I study disease outbreaks.
So, like, outbreaks on the skin?
No. Not that. No skin is involved.
Oh, like epidemics!
She told me I was smart. I thanked her and wondered if that was a weird thing to say thank you to.
She asked if I had driven there. No, I walked. I only live a block away.
Well, I was nice so she would give me the discount anyway. Suddenly, my membership was only $5. This is when I began to get suspicious of our interaction.
I asked if she was in school or did she just work here. She just worked here. She graduated from Longwood with a degree in Art and English. She wished she was more into the sciences. She really liked astronomy.
Same. Did she know there was a solar eclipse next month? August 23. It’s the first one of its kind in our lifetime, or so I’m told.
She didn’t know that. She would have to write that down. She’d liked to talk to me more about my studies, sometime. Did I have a business card?
Do I have a business card? No, I don’t. I’m a PhD student, not an MBA. But I can write down my info on this receipt.
She provided me a pen. “And here’s my number,” she said.
“I’m Cazey, by the way,” I offered. “Oh, you already knew that.” She was holding my ID.
I refrained from saying my parents’ dog has a similar name. But that is what I was thinking.
“Here’s my email.” I realized I had only written my email. “Just email me.” Pause. “Or, here, I should give you my number.” I scribbled it down. “Yeah, just contact me.”
I walked away from the counter and wondered if I had really just gotten the museum receptionist’s number and a discount on membership. Yes, I had. I felt like that stuff only happens in sitcoms. Maybe life is a sitcom. Would we be telling this story to a crowd of close family and friends on our wedding night?
At the exhibit I wanted to see, I was asked for a ticket. I instinctively handed the docent the paper in my hand. It was Natasha’s name and number. “Oh, f-ck.” I snatched it back. “I forgot to get a ticket.”
The docent directed me back upstairs, back to Natasha.
I stood in line, suddenly aware and alert. Natasha waited on another customer. Did she think I was coming back to ask what she was doing after her shift? Because I’m not. I just wanted a ticket. She saw me. She almost called me up before the next customer. Instead, another receptionist waited on me. She had seen what had gone down before, I could tell. I smiled. She smiled. She gave me a ticket.
I haven’t decided if I’ll text Natasha.
If you liked this, then you may like: