Missed Connection: I Was Just Some Guy. You Were Emma Watson. — m4w (West Village)

The following is a true account. It’s my actual missed connection with Emma Watson.

I was at a restaurant called Wallflower in the West Village. I was on a date with my girlfriend. I faced the booth. She faced the interior of the restaurant and, beyond that, the front door.

I was in the middle of speaking when my girlfriend’s eyes went wide. Her eyes shifted and I could tell she was looking just past me. Something else had urgently found her attention. I turned to see what she was staring at.

It was you — Emma Watson. You’d just walked in.

Of all the gin joints…

You’ve been my crush for years. Since the first Harry Potter movie. You were a frizzy-haired dreamboat. I was pimply. Awkward.

I’d spent so many years imagining we’d meet. But I guess my imagination never went past the moment we came face-to-face because when you finally walked within meeting distance, I had nothing. I didn’t know what to say or what to do. I was a mouth-agape fool.

I wanted so badly for there to be an opportunity for us to begin chatting. Maybe the two of us would bump into each other going to and from the bathroom. “Oh, sorry,” I’d say. “Aren’t you — ?” And I wouldn’t finish because I’d play it cool like I didn’t actually feel like my insides were bursting.

But no such opportunity arose.

You were on a date yourself, so I didn’t interrupt. Or say hi. Or ask for a picture or an autograph. I wanted to do a hundred different things to get your attention, but they all felt futile or insincere or, frankly, off-putting.

Instead, my girlfriend (who, for the record, was excited for me, and not at all jealous or upset) and I grabbed our jackets and calmly walked out. As I crossed your table, you and I exchanged glances. You were as stunning in person as in pictures.

If you see this I’d like to meet again, on purpose this time, and take you for a proper drink. (My girlfriend is fine with it.)

I was an average guy wearing a plaid button-up tucked into black Levi’s jeans. You were Emma fucking Watson.

Originally published at newyork.craigslist.org.