Sitting in the playcafe, I see a woman come in with her friend. She's never been, and asks me for some general information. She's happy with her new discovery, determined to come back. She seems lovely. She has a friend with two small children, so she's obviously not allergic to mothers. Then she mentions, casually, that she has three sons (7,4,2-ish). She WILL be my new best friend. It has been decreed.
The conditions are perfect: I have on my pretty black witches dress with the black bows. Lovely black boots. My hair is wild, yet newly washed so not objectionable. I'm reading a thinking woman's newspaper, but the slightly more lefty one rather than the deathly dull one. I have also managed not to spill any of my lunch onto myself. Neither have the children. Marie did sneeze on me violently, but I think I got all the snot with a tissue before it set. I cannot fail!
But - she has her friend there, so I'm hesitant to hijack the conversation. Also, we nearly have to go. I try anyway. When friend goes to pee, I marvel at her baby and ask my new best friend about the baby's age. (Boring, I know, but at least I'm trying.) The conversation is awkward. I sense she's not entirely averse to my overtures, though, so I try once more when Marie goes to admire the baby. Then friend comes back, so I am forced to retreat.
I sit at my table, plotting to make her fall for me. Tying her up so she can't get away while I list my endearing qualities is probably not the way to go. I'm short on cash, so bribery is not an option. Coming straight out and saying "We should be friends" is just so damned un-Flemish. (I have tried this too often. Successes so far: 1. On an American.) So aloofness and feigned indifference it is.
We have to go now. I make one more mad dash for it, desperately telling her "I might see you around then." Way to go, Mwa. That will haul her in.