Okay, so there’s a really good reason I wasn’t there. All three times.
Give me a chance to explain—ten minutes—No. No, five. Give me five minutes and you’ll understand that I didn’t stand you up. Not really.
You might even like me more. I mean, you would, if I knew you would read this. If I could know you knew it was me. But such is the necessity of blogging anonymity when the stories you share may or may not be too far removed from reality to seem viable.
So, yeah, I hope you’re reading this.
(Party time. Excellent.)
There was that first time, right? Hardly two weeks ago? I told you the truth when I told you I had a brief to write on a deadline… mostly. More briefing, less brief, because I wasn’t writing one this time, but receiving. Impromptu briefing. Emergency. Time sensitive material. Immediate action required.
While I can’t disclose which agency, bureau, society or department I may or may not be a part of, I can kind of give you a frame of reference for the kind of scope of the thing.
You know those movies with Tom Hanks and all the art and religious people he has to save from horrible, gruesome deaths? It’s kind of like that… meets Harry Potter.
(Stay with me.)
So there’s this guy—let’s call him Voldemort. He was like one of the pope-type guys Tom Hanks had to save.
(We didn’t know he was Voldemort until he whipped out his sorcery some time later, but I’ll get to that.)
If I’d’ve know what I was gonna learn in my briefing I wouldn’t’ve rescheduled our date for so soon, but I was so excited to get to know you that it’s like I couldn’t help myself. But you see, it was because of this briefing I would miss our second first date as well as the first.
Okay, so the first first date briefing: Time sensitive. Not my fault.
During the second first date you so graciously offered to shift to a couple days later—while you were sipping on your drink, I imagaine, I had the self-flagellating albino in a headlock. I wouldn’t get a chance to get in touch with you until the next morning, after we’d ghosted Pope Voldemort to safety.
I only told you the line about napping through an alarm the night before, because who hasn’t done that before? It was forgivable, I hoped, and, still, you were gracious.
You made me wait a week—busy, you said, but I wondered if you were lying, playing a game with me. But I told you I could be available whenever you wanted to meet, a move meant to charm and win you.
That would be the dingus move that would make me miss our third first date.
Why couldn’t you have rescheduled it sooner? I was free all that week, Pope You-Know-Who safe and sound where we thought he should be. And you and I were texting some pretty winning flirtation, if you ask me.
I don’t know entirely why I decided to change my cover story for our second first date.
I wasn’t napping, I told you. I was just too embarrassed to tell you the truth:
I was shaving my beard. I was so nervous for our date, I said, I decided to shave my beard—for you—but it meant that I didn’t make it to see you. Again. Like a nervous accidentally on purpose blow off. Adorable, charming—for coming clean about the alarm lie (which was, in fact, a lie)—plus appropriately apologetic.
(I also wanted a reason to send you a picture of my face—I really did have to shave my face, if not for those exact reasons. The funny picture meant to charm, too, and hopefully remind you I was cute enough to keep waiting for.)
So, we finally rescheduled for exactly a week after our failed second first date.
About a day before we were supposed to meet, Pope Voldemort decides to show his sorcerous cards.
I didn’t even have time on the way to the briefing to text you—they whisked me from campus (I really do study law) and briefed me in the car on the way to the airport.
If it makes you feel any better, Voldemort’s in our custody now. At least I spent our time apart making the world a safer place, you know?
I was only able to get online long enough before the flight back the next morning to text, “Is everything all right?” (But you know that. You were there.) I probably should have lead with “I’m sorry,” but jet-lag and sorcery had me a bit frazzled. Only once I’d landed safely back at… Hogwarts, our HQ, did I see your response that said, in no uncertain terms, that you were done with me. (But you know that, too, also having been there.)
Maybe I deserved it, but before I could get a chance to grovel properly, I was shepherded into a nearly a week’s worth of debriefs, meetings—I even made it to Dumbledore’s office for a spectacular one-on-one.
Alas, I got in touch with you as soon as I could. It was nearly a week after our third first date failure, I know, but I swear, if it could’ve been sooner, it would have been. I only texted because I didn’t think you’d answer my call, and I couldn’t come in person because I was still on the Hogwarts Express, as it were.
Here I am, still waiting to hear back from you, on bended knee. One more chance, that’s all I ask. Only one. Five minutes, even.
I promise I won’t have to save the world again this time.
HermioneGraanger88 COMMENTED: I saw you chilling at the Corner Bistro. When you should’ve been on the Hogwarts Express, m’boy.
S3cr3tAg3ntMan COMMENTED: ….ummm, I think you’ve got me confused with someone else…
HermioneGraanger88 COMMENTED: Sure. Either way, I wouldn’t expect to hear from this girl. She’ll probably be indefinitely busy shampooing her hair.