Anne and I went into a little coffee place in Eagle Rock this afternoon, on a spur of the moment date.
While we waited, the girl who poured our coffee looked at me from behind the espresso machine and said, "Are you who I think you are?"
I've heard this question a lot in my life, and there really isn't a good way to answer it that doesn't make me feel like a dick.
"I'm not sure," I said. "Who do you think I am?"
She hesitated before saying, in a soft and uncertain voice, "Are you . . . Wil . . . Wil Wheaton?"
"Yeah," I said. "That's me."
She blushed and smiled. "You're my favorite!"
Anne, took my hand in hers and squeezed it. Her eyes sparkled. "He's my favorite, too," She said.
I looked at my wife. I felt the same way I did when she said, "Yes."
"That's the best thing, ever," I said.
***
Please read this note. Thanks.
