Blame it on the Rain.

He was a Drummer.

Somehow I ended up helping him with his gear, a half hour before his band's set was supposed to start. It was pouring, and I'd finagled a cart to help him, since, out of the trio, he seemed to have the most equipment that needed to be lugged around. I apologized for not having more help in such inclement weather.

He said not to worry, most of the time no one offers to help him, so he's figured out how to manage without a cart most of the time.

Pause. Yeah, midgets work really well for carrying shit around.
Who said that?

He blinked. Don’t say bad things about midgets.

Think fast. Seriously, it’s okay. My brother’s a midget – he tells me that he doesn’t mind.
That's all I got? I belong in a cave.

Pause. You don’t really have a brother, do you?

I do. But actually…he’s rather tall.

He. Laughed.
I. Was in love.

Here I was rationalizing what I believed was a definite connection via the initial ice-breaker-midget-joke-volley (successful) and accompanying light witty banter throughout the rest of the time Drummer was around. This was acceptable fodder for stoking the flames of flirtation. For several hours afterwards, I'd managed to convince myself that the entire 600 seconds (tops) we (probably) interacted was a complex courtship dance, a hint-studded verbal labyrinth, and somehow, all for my benefit.

I went home that night, proceeded to sip a bourbon, and did something I've never done before.
I looked up Drummer on MySpace.

I don’t have a MySpace account, nor do I ever desire to have one. For many, as well as specifically this reason - I'm a little too old and way too cynical to base my romantic theories on how someone posts their status d'amour in the virtual world. The same place where adults posing as tweens looking to bone set up cyberspace box traps with the intent to snag other adults looking for actual tweens to bone. Nah.

That said.
Drummer is a Leo, is apparently 78 years old, expressed his day with a "loved" emoticon, and.
Is.
Single.

Fuck MySpace.