Friday, June 10, 2011

An LA Bar Story

"We know each other, how do we know each other?" he asked at the Troubadour last month. "I know, I recognize you," I replied. After a run-down of college, jobs, and possible LA connections, we came up with nothing.

The next night, I awoke from my slumber in revelation- "It's that guy!"

Four years ago, I went to my friend's birthday party at the Stone Rose Bar at the Sofitel Hotel. I met a boy who had moved to LA just days prior. With stars in his drunken handsome eyes, he told me about his black BMW, dreams of being an actor post Wall Street living and kissed me. Over time, I forgot if he even got my phone number, we ever spoke again or his name. I remember every detail of everyone I meet now, I swear.

"I used to have a sports car before this one," he said as he drove me to our first "date" location.
"Oh yeah, what kind?" I asked.
"A BMW."
"Was it black?" I knew what the answer would be.
"Uh, yes."
Not wanting to out-rightly admit I made out with a random guy at a bar in my early twenties (cause no-one has ever done that), I proceeded to ask more investigatory questions to be sure it was him before revealing my discovery. We looked at each other in awe. We hadn't even finished our first date yet, but this just had to be the greatest fated love story of all time.

The thing about fated love stories is, sometimes they are fated to turn into... nothing. I remember thinking- it's so great that we never went out four years ago, I am much more mature and aware of who I am, it's definitely better timing. But after a sequence of "dates" (I put that in quotes because he apparently thought sitting on the couch watching SportsCenter was a date), I realized that something that was a chance meeting once, can still not be meant for anything more than that. It was not a magical story to tell the grand-kids, it was just simply an LA bar story. But a pretty good one at that. Apparently, I like to find them.