I miss psssts.

The old psssts.

The old psssts that were so pleasant to turn to on that page in The Coast (or that page on the web), where they were tucked away between a generic advertisement for a garage sale and another someone looking for a guitar player for their Country-Swing-Punk band. Squeezed uncomfortably but quietly in between them...a little, humble, hesitant psssst.

A little, humble, hesitant pssst submitted by a possibly not-so-little, or perhaps especially little, humble, hesitant pssster. Whom, upon entering a coffee shop, for the first time had the guts to finally make eyes with the ravishing, magical barista - and she smiled back! And it wasn't just any smile. It was "that" smile. The one that you know was going to lead to lazy Sunday mornings with spiced french toast and warm Winter nights with long walks in the fog, with fingers entwined under shining eyes. But it was the end of her shift and she left. And it must have been her last shift altogether, because since then, no eyes were made since. So a pssst was submitted, as a form of passive effort to redeem a lost chance.

A passive effort that epitomizes so much of our hesitant, humble dreams. To take a leap is too frightening, but not try at all leaves a gaping hole. So instead, a little, humble, hesitant pssst that only vaguely suggests what could have been possible.

Could have been possible. Ever so quietly and hesitantly suggesting the possibility.

But not any more.

So fuck you, The Coast. You ruined it.
—Pissss'd