Pretend Their Names Are Greta and Ann, Part 2

Within a couple weeks of meeting Ann, Greta and I met at a coffee shop. (Side note: I adore this coffee shop. It’s local, and it manages to feel both crunchy and like it caters to academics at the same time.) I ordered an Aztec mocha, which is a mocha with chile powder and cinnamon added. If I recall correctly, Greta ordered a chai tea latte, but I may not recall correctly. 

We sat and chatted on the shop’s couch for the better part of two hours. We talked about her work, which was primarily with handicapped adults, and about my nursing related plans. We talked about religion! Oh, did we talk about religion. We had similar upbringings; her parents didn’t handle her coming out well. Mine didn’t know at all at the time. She told me about feeling lost in the church but wanting a church family; I told her that I wasn’t sure I even believed in God anymore.

It was a good talk and a good time. Eventually time ran out, and we walked outside. She was going to the right, and I was going to the left. We hugged and she lingered. I stepped out of the hug and went to my car. I hadn’t been in the car for five minutes before I got a text message about what a good time Greta had. 
It was an altogether successful evening, really. 

Except that there was no chemistry, at least for me. I felt no spark, no “I need to know more about this woman and maybe sit closer to her,” no magnetism. 

So, naturally, we kept texting daily, and this is still not the end of this story. 

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