I just had the strangest conversation with Sardine. Or rather, I just had the strangest conversation because it was with Sardine. She called from NYC. (By the way, she's very happy to be surrounded by other Italian-Americans, her last name being *redacted* and Ann Arbor not being exactly swamped with sons and daughters of Italia.) Before the Final Blowout at Macho Grande, I had not spoken with her in, quite literally, six to eight months. We were not what one would call friends. But I gave her my number at the Final Blowout and we got together to watch movies twice before she left. I am quite interested in her, yet my advances, such as they were, were rebuffed; the obvious explanation is the historically consistant one: she is simply not interested in me. Fair enough.

However, there is a small voice, akin to the dark bastard, that whispers they may be another explanation: it could simply have been bad timing. After all, she left a mere two weeks after the party. What would be the point of probing a relationship in such a short window of opportunity? I asked myself the same question, but answered it with the reckless bravado of carpe diem. It is of course entirely possible that we are merely friends and that she called from New York just to talk to me, because she enjoys talking to me. But I've got no decisive evidence either way; so, hope springs eternal. Besides, she is ever so cute.