What is it?

Omg she answered me!
    What is that feeling of maybe she is “the one” that comes in the written voice of a person? It seems like you can hear the humbleness, the sexiness, the wisdom, the … in the voice resounding in your head as you read. And I haven’t met her yet.
    And then when she answers, I hear all kinds of other stuff that may or may not be there. Emotion seems to be separate from words somehow. Floating like a mist that gathers and disappears. And then the only way to find out for sure is to reply. Haha. Enormous risk. Entering the realm of the unknown. Soldiers and maidens, goddesses and gods, unicorns, monsters, Freddy and Jason.
    I was getting an order taken at a coffee shop yesterday and the person was hardly visible behind a screen and her mask, and being Georgia, she had that southern accent. Which seems to exude hospitality in its every intonation. But she was also very very quick about it, her words right behind mine. So it was insistent to move along, but at the same time like “I am so happy to be serving you”. Funny combo, and efficient. Very efficient to obtain results. Made me want to buy one of the cute trucker type hats. A blue one to be exact. The logo was an octopus and its head said Tybean Coffee. My favorite type of coffee shop, a real turn towards the creative, not a Starbucks sheen to be found anywhere. The bathroom was back by this bar where stickers were everywhere, comfortably. One said “Six String Spirit, Southern Soul,” or something like that, and you could tell the music was still echoing in the walls with a real intent. A little bit dangerous. Something might happen.
    I guess I still want to get me one of those hats. But I probably haven’t paid enough dues. Shopping kind of sucks in America. I don’t want to be a tourist in my own country. But maybe it isn’t my country when I’m in Georgia. Something about that accent I suppose.
Something about that accent I suppose.
    But back to the she, who answered. I answer and am I saying too much, not enough. Too right, too left. The ex-waitress who is staying at the condo next door at the beach here is so friendly, she’s a real talker and its quite enjoyable. Reminds me of my party days. You could hang out with anybody, and challenge them in friendly ways, of course. You could find out stuff. Partying, traveling days. We’ve been getting to know her, she’s full of wonder at life. She gave me a shark’s tooth from the beach, she had so many of them. I gave her one of my fold books which she loved, she said. Short poems that are disposable. A little four page book made out of a piece of paper. You just can’t fit very many words on there, how valuable could it be? But the waitress, I noticed, being from S. Carolina managed to tell us both about a massacre in her town, of black people demonstrating about exclusion at a bowling alley, and ask about the riots in Philadelphia, as well as talk about her mother passing away from cancer, and the glory of the sunrise as well as a lightning storm the other night. It goes on and on, I suppose, if possible.