Oh You Forgot To Take My Number

I have a thing for glasses. Guys in glasses. Nerds really. The nerdier the better. Throw in a sense of humour and baby I’m all yours.

The guy that delivers my dinner at night and collects the tray fits into this category.

Dark hair, black rimmed square glasses and an edgy tattoo. I have a little rehab crush.

Unfortunately our conversations don’t extend beyond:

“Here’s your dinner.”



“Are you finished?”

“Yes thanks.”

“Have a good night.”

Not really the stuff romance novels are made off.

But how to extend the conversation beyond our four sentences?

Mum has a few ideas. She still hasn’t given up the idea of a rehab romance.

“As he takes the tray and goes to walk away say, oh you forgot to take my number,” she suggests.

“Or when he comes in you could tell him dinner is your favourite part of the day as you get to see him.”

“How about, you make hospital food taste good?” I chime in.

Who am I kidding? I am not bold nor smooth enough to pull off any of this.

Since I am incapable of pulling off a cheesy pick-up line or any sort of flirty banter; perhaps I can seduce him with my awkwardness instead. I already have him entering my bedroom each night after all.


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