The Season of Passing Notes
When it is a woman, not a man, who administers the full-body massage, I expect nothing more than the massage. Therefore the only compelling reason for me to choose a (female) masseuse over a hunk who may or may not give extra service is the rate.
The last time I was at this affordable spa, I sort of flirted with the boy assistant in the locker area. I wrote about this. He eventually became somewhat of a phone texting regular. Turns out, he's moved up to the front desk. I recognized his voice instantly when I heard it waft through the open door. He didn't seem to recognize me though. He kept calling me "sir" in a polite, serviceman kind of way. I kept making intense eye contact just in case it could jog his memory, but he repaid my stares only with brief generic necessary glances that seemed to mean absolutely nothing. I waited for the supervisor type fellow to disappear, then asked the boy if his name was so and so. He said yes very plainly with a factory-processed smile and didn't even ask me how I knew who he was. I felt it was suddenly a challenge to find a way to remind this boy that once upon a time he told me he was falling in love with me. But then maybe I didn't really want him to remember that.
After the massage, as my friends and I were ready to exit, I gave it one last shot. I approached the front desk with my celphone in hand. I was about to ask this boy if he still had the same phone number. But before I could utter the words, he stopped me with a smile, handed me a folded piece of paper, and said, "Sir, may bago na po ako." It was his number, neatly written. He remembered me after all. Walking away, Kung Fu Guy laughed and pointed at the piece of paper, "Prepared ha!" They thought it was odd that the receptionist would hand me a note just like that.
Two weeks ago, a barista at a coffee shop did something similar. But he didn't hand me just a note. With the length of the message, it could've been a fucking love letter. Haha, not really. It went like this: "Why do you look at me like that anything wrong? Anyway I smell something are you bisexual? Anyway here's my number *********** I'll be out 2:30 A.M." with his name signed at the bottom. He later approached me while I was enjoying my coffee and pretended to be cleaning something in my general vicinity and made small talk. I offered him a seat, but he said they're not allowed to something or another. It was near closing hour.
So anyway, here's all I want to say. With all the trendy new ways of meeting people through the latest in communication technology, still nothing beats a folded piece of paper.
The last time I was at this affordable spa, I sort of flirted with the boy assistant in the locker area. I wrote about this. He eventually became somewhat of a phone texting regular. Turns out, he's moved up to the front desk. I recognized his voice instantly when I heard it waft through the open door. He didn't seem to recognize me though. He kept calling me "sir" in a polite, serviceman kind of way. I kept making intense eye contact just in case it could jog his memory, but he repaid my stares only with brief generic necessary glances that seemed to mean absolutely nothing. I waited for the supervisor type fellow to disappear, then asked the boy if his name was so and so. He said yes very plainly with a factory-processed smile and didn't even ask me how I knew who he was. I felt it was suddenly a challenge to find a way to remind this boy that once upon a time he told me he was falling in love with me. But then maybe I didn't really want him to remember that.
After the massage, as my friends and I were ready to exit, I gave it one last shot. I approached the front desk with my celphone in hand. I was about to ask this boy if he still had the same phone number. But before I could utter the words, he stopped me with a smile, handed me a folded piece of paper, and said, "Sir, may bago na po ako." It was his number, neatly written. He remembered me after all. Walking away, Kung Fu Guy laughed and pointed at the piece of paper, "Prepared ha!" They thought it was odd that the receptionist would hand me a note just like that.
Two weeks ago, a barista at a coffee shop did something similar. But he didn't hand me just a note. With the length of the message, it could've been a fucking love letter. Haha, not really. It went like this: "Why do you look at me like that anything wrong? Anyway I smell something are you bisexual? Anyway here's my number *********** I'll be out 2:30 A.M." with his name signed at the bottom. He later approached me while I was enjoying my coffee and pretended to be cleaning something in my general vicinity and made small talk. I offered him a seat, but he said they're not allowed to something or another. It was near closing hour.
So anyway, here's all I want to say. With all the trendy new ways of meeting people through the latest in communication technology, still nothing beats a folded piece of paper.