Reasons I don't play the field

I know, I know. I'm a dating anomaly.

I've found some refuge in my Meyers-Briggs Type Indicator, which indicates that the ability to date multiple people at once eludes most people of my type (INFJ).

I've been emailing someone for a few weeks, now. A common friend put us in touch with each other. I really like him over email. He's intelligent, he's careful with spelling and grammar, he knows how to turn a phrase and set a scene. He's also incredibly open about himself, prompt with replies, and just tonight he referenced something I mentioned in my first email to him.

I feel very optimistic about the possibility of this man. Especially since we've been kicking around the idea of meeting in person.

I drive a pretty hot car, as 11-year-old cars go. I also have a Harry Potter™ action figure on my dashboard. The gentle reader may decide whether that makes my car cooler or more geeky.

Last Wednesday I was driving my hot car to ESL. And the guy in the Jeep™ next to me looks over and smiles.

I'm a considerate driver. I smile back, rather vaguely, in that it's-nice-you-noticed sort of way.

I turn onto Roosevelt, thinking nothing of it. Until I realize that the Jeep™ is keeping pace with me. The whole way. And the driver is still smiling at me. He's on his cell phone, which I find kind of creepy. Is he describing me to his buddy or something?

He finally passes me (he's in the left lane, after all). Eventually, I get stuck behind some slow-moving traffic and move into the left lane to get ahead.

And see a Jeep™ to my right. The driver smiles, again. He's off the phone, now.

He puts a piece of office paper against the driver's side window with his phone number written on it in marker.

He's still smiling at me.

It's an easy number to remember.

I'm not going to call him.

I know I've yet to meet the letter-writer. I know it's completely rational and ethical and empowered-woman-who-can-play-the-field-if-she-wants to arrange to meet both him and the Jeep™ driver, since I owe nothing to either.

But the letter-writer has knocked politely at the door to my heart.

There is something of him I would betray if I considered another, now.

I would betray myself.