The Redhead from the Market
🔥 Field Report
As I walked toward my apartment, I noticed an art market across the street—clothing stalls, framed paintings, handmade jewelry, a taco truck. I wandered through and spotted a cute, slender redhead in a baggy white t-shirt and tote bag tossing her paper plate in the trash.
I walked up, casual.
“Hey, where’d you get that taco?”
She smiled, told me all about the taco truck. Apparently, it sets up by the neighborhood hipster bar on Tuesdays. I asked how it was—el pastor, delicious.
“Nice,” I said, and let it hang. She smiled, then walked away.
No overthinking. Just a clean approach—in the middle of the day.
A couple days later, after taking a PEth test to disprove my wife’s claim that I have a drinking problem (part of the divorce drama), I wanted to unwind. I had two citrusy IPAs and some mango habanero wings at the sports bar—beer and spice, always a gamble. Good thing I had water too.
I thought about calling it a night. But the memory of that girl flickered.
So I headed to the hipster bar.
Outside, I spotted her—same redhead, this time nestled at a table with friends. She looked up and locked eyes with me.
Inside, I ordered a spicy margarita. A moment later, she walked by, heading to the bathroom.
“Hey,” I said, stopping her. “Don’t I know you?”
She lit up.
“Yes! From the market!”
We talked. Same college, neighboring zip codes. She studied finance but now works in the music business. Name’s Ruby.
She had to return to her friends. I asked for her number to grab a drink sometime—she told me she had a boyfriend in New York.
“So?” I said with a grin, but didn’t press. We agreed we’d probably see each other around.
She remembered me—even with sunglasses on at the market. That stuck with me. Daygame has a subtle edge: sober memory.
No nightclub haze. No alcohol fog. Just recognition.
I didn’t get the number. But I got the signal.
I’ll see her around.