the Fresh Meat Syndrome

She is, quite simply, the most enchanting creature you have ever laid eyes on. The way her hair cascades down her back, the way her teeth flash when she smiles, the way her gorgeous eyes meet yours without hesitation or reserve - all perfect.

You've been working your way through the crowd towards her for twenty minutes. You make small talk in order to edge closer, exchanging brief distracted words with people who's faces you forget as you search the room for hers. Finally, you're there. You start, stammer, and come up with some stunning bit of wit or commentary - maybe your A Material reserved for women like this.

She laughs, and you find utter fulfillment in that laugh. You smile, basking in the glow of her admiration for even so small a thing, as you deftly turn your opening sally into what you hope will be a much longer conversation.

Then, out of no where, some other rat bastard has the unmitigated gall to interupt your communion with the enchanting creature. Sputtering, you realize that you've been demoted to one of two potential suitors. Unbelievably, you're about to become one of three. Then four. Before you know it, you've been bumped out to the outer edges of the conversation. With nothing else to say, you shrug your shoulders and wander into the theatre to find a seat. Welcome to church.

Did she come here to meet one of you, or did she come to meet Him?