I now have six ways of contacting Matt.

I could call him, email him, friend him, or stop by his place of business. It’s too much.Two days ago he was a figment of my dry cleaner’s money-making imagination. Today he is a guy of like age and location (street, to be exact), with similar interests (30 Rock!), an admirable occupation (my company buys what his company sells – I mean…) , and really fun looking family vacation pictures. (They went to Africa. His parents are featured enjoying a wine tasting in the Sahara. These are my people).

My next move is critical. The way I see it I have two options: create an intricate and fool- proof lie or tell the very awkward truth.

Matt works at ________ a place of business that my place of business often does business with. It is, in fact, entirely possible that someone within my company regularly communicates with a Matt-like person, if not actual Matt. So it is not outside the realm of possibility that I might need to contact a Matt-like-person-if-not-actual-Matt to ask questions about the capabilities of his company.

It would – and mind you the draft is very rough at this point – go something like this:

Hi Matt,

My name is Jessie and I work with ________ from our digital team. _________ suggested I contact you with a few questions about ________’s capabilities for an upcoming program we’re working on with the _______ brand.

If you could give me a call when you have the chance I’d love to just ask you a few questions.

Thanks!

Jessie

Cake. He calls. We chat. I assess his entire person based on his business phone call performance. It’s perfect. We proceed with more calls and emails. I arrange an eventual meeting where I engage in appropriate-though-borderline work flirting. Then comes some vague “work” event as thanks for his help on this project. We drink, talk about our mutual love of theme parties and smart puns. End scene.

This plan affords me the opportunity to abort mission mid-lie if Matt proves sub-par avoiding the need for that eventual conversation where I admit I lied – he says, “how could you?! I thought I loved you! Now I don’t even know. who. you. are.…” and then we’re both seen walking around the city lost and forlorn to some heart-wrenching Brian Adams song – in the rain.

I could do this. I lie fairly well. But I can’t help fearing how I’ll back myself out of this if – sorry Oprah – when it works out.

For starters I’d have to delete every post about him and swear everyone I know to secrecy, including Anna who as we know is not easily trusted. I’d probably have to find an entirely new dry cleaner which is a bear of a task in this city. Then I’d eventually have to sit him down and tell him how this all really came about.

One of those “listen, there’s something I need to tell you…” conversations. My version: our dry cleaner wanted to set us up. She stole a business card from your suit pocket and gave it to me. I used it to contact you and built an elaborate lie to meet you. I swore everyone in my life to secrecy and deleted the posts from the series of blog entries I had written about you and shared with hundreds of people, some of whom live overseas (what up Estonia!). I’m so sorry. I never meant for this to happen. Except…I sort of did.”

According to most movies what follows next is a period of anger and total separation. It’s not that he doesn’t miss me. It’s just that he can’t trust me. And so I’ll have to concoct some grandiose romantic plan to win back his trust in a public forum with a well crafted speech that, god-willing, ends in him saying, “just shut up and kiss me.”

I’m fairly confident I can do it, but considering the obstacles it may be worth entertaining the option of telling the truth.

Next Monday: the truth option. Tomorrow: Happy Thanksgiving.

(thanks to Doug for Laundro-Matt. genius)