I was in a book store, sharing office politics via an overly animated and probably waaaay too loud conversation when he approached me.
By he, I mean a boy. I frum boy. A nervous frum boy. A nervous frum boy who wanted to know if I am Malka. That's when my imagination went into overdrive. See, in a world where I didn't have a train to catch, I would have nodded shyly and hung up the phone. It's lovely to imagine, really. I could have had an entire date with a guy who's name I didn't know. Perhaps the real Malka would have passed, looking anxiously for her date.
Alternatively, I could have followed discreetly behind him and waited until he found Malka. Then, as their conversation heated up, I would have interrupted. "So did you find Malka in the end?"
But alas, I had a train to catch.
And so, instead, I spent a train ride home happily imagining the scenarios that could have unfolded. And I felt all virtuous for not disrupting a possible future shidduch b'yisroel. Nobody can blame the shidduch crisis on me!