It didn’t matter how many times I spoke to Amber, the butterflies never went away. She always sat in the same corner of the bar, always dressed in the same leather jacket and leggings, her jet-black hair always slick back. She wore mascara that formed cat eyes, and she kept her skin almost ghostly pale. She always toyed with her necklace when she was nervous while her other hand ran a finger around the rim of her margarita glass. Every single time I saw her she got there right at seven thirty, and every single night, no matter what I tried, she ended up going home with Paul Bosman. Not me.
I think that must have been my eighth time trying. I’d tried corny openers, tried to talk about her interests, even went for straight compliments. Nothing worked, and I knew the reason. Amber was out of my league, and it wasn’t even close. I knew it was hopeless, and I definitely felt that way, but what choice did I have? On June 16, 2017, there were four thousand six hundred and eighty-three of them. Some would be easy to talk too, others near impossible, but one way or another, I’d keep on trying until I won them all over.