Honey, play a LITTLE hard to get!

Last week, my friend Vonn and I dined on ginormous burritos at Chipotle (or, as my dad sometimes pronounces it, Capote) for lunch.

A cute little redhead was working the register. And ahead of us in line was a fella who worked at the local T-Mobile (we could tell by the rainbow of little squares on the back of his work shirt). He was cute in that young, I-can-get-ya-a-great-deal-on-a-data-plan kind of way.

Register Girl seemed REALLY into him. And she treated him right in her own I-can-get-ya-a-great-deal-on-a-chicken-burrito kind of way.

He sat close to her and her register and, between customers, she faithfully ran over to chat with him.

Here's where it got a little sad.

1. She came over and gave him her number
2. Then she came back and gave him another number
3. Then she came back and gave him her e-mail address
4. Then she came back and gave him her work number
5. Then she came back and gave him...

You see where this is going. Every time she came back, it got a wee bit more pathetic. By the time she was done, she'd basically downgraded her desirability to booty-call material at best.

I sooooo wanted to tell her to play it cool. Good Lord, the man works at a cell phone store. He can find a way to contact her if he really wants to.

This week, when I went back for another burrito the size of my head (and a Diet Coke, to make it all healthy), Register Girl's eyes were glued to the door.

And he never walked in. :(