(Please note the smiley face and heart followed by a question mark. So cryptic. So enticing.)
Now, there are several ways to interpret this correspondence from an apparently secret admirer. The mature, realistic portion of my brain immediately recognized the note as a cute joke, and, after administering a swift kick in the pants to the moony, 13-year-old portion of my brain that dared for one hot second to wonder if the note could be serious, went to work narrowing the possibilities for who the author might be. (I should clarify that the reason this note could never ever in a million years be serious is that I ride Maurice to school every day in 85ºF heat with 900% humidity, which means I show up to the office appearing to have recently exited a large body of water. Hot, but not sexy. Not sexy at all.) The mature, realistic portion of my brain soon identified three main suspects:
1. Queeny, one of my housemates who also teaches at Atma Jaya.
2. Mabel, my other housemate who also teaches at Atma Jaya.
3. One of my students.
By evening, it had been confirmed that neither Queeny nor Mabel were guilty of this crime of passion. (The handwriting on the note was even compared to a lesson plan of Mabel's, just for verification purposes.) I was starting to get excited at the prospect that one of my students might have a secret crush on me (because, after all, who doesn't want to be secretly crushed on by their students?) but then I remembered Talcon, a friend of mine from my Indonesian class, who would both be able to recognize Maurice as my bicycle, and be adorable enough to write me said note. Plus, when I think about it, it actually does kind of look like her handwriting, which I've been sitting next to in class for four hours a day, five days a week for the past two months. I haven't yet confronted her about it, and although it seems pretty likely that she is indeed the mysterious author, until I know for sure I am choosing to sustain the fantasy that one of my students might think I am the prettiest teacher at Atma Jaya. I mean, when the way I generally present myself to the Indonesians I interact with on a daily basis includes panting, dripping, soaking wet hair and sweat stains the size of the Bali Sea, I'm going to take advantage of my ignorance, embrace all possibilities, and choose to see the glass as half full (of ice water). Can you blame me?