You were standing outside the BC Gallery of Ceramics. I was riding a bike, a task I promptly stopped when our eyes appeared to meet. Your gaze was humorous, your smile inviting. To summon up the courage necessary for responding to that invitation, I pretended to be fixing my bike. Intimidated by the scrutiny of your eyes, I got so engaged in perfecting this charade that the next I looked up you were gone. That general sense of calm, welling up inside thanks to that half an hour of pretend bike maintenance, dissipated instantly by that rueful realization. Now my sense of uselessness is kicking me intermittently, charmingly and with a touch of nobility for not asking you out. Can I actually fix your bike, if you have one? Or beer sometime?