Pho and The Lack of Narrative

On Saturday I went to Ikea in order to finally get myself a dresser so that I wouldn't be living out of suitcases and a shitty set of plastic drawers. I also planned on going to Pho Ha to have another round of their fantastic pho. And this is what happened:
I came into the restaurant and saw that it was pretty crowded, I was not overly surprised by this fact, having walked in knowing there was a chance that I would have to share a table with strangers (against one wall they have a lot of two person tables pushed together so that parties of six or eight can sit together...or people can attempt to space themselves out while still sharing the centrally located spoon/chopsticks/napkins/sauce dispenser centers). I came prepared with a pen and piece of paper for writing real thoughts I had, or to appear like I was writing thoughts I had. The young dude in charge of seating immediately asked me if I was a party of two, I corrected him, he looked around and sort of seemed like he was sorry. I then told him it was fine, I could sit at a table with other people. He asked me if I was sure. I said I was. He walked to a table that had seating for eight. Up against the wall there was a couple, then there were four empty seats, and then a guy on the end. The seater seemed to ask the guy at the end if it was alright for someone else to sit there, he responded positively, as did the couple. So I went and sat down, nodding to the couple (a middle aged white couple) and saying hello to the guy on the end (a late 20-something guy with a certain handsome look to him...I didn't look closely). Once seated I pulled out my paper, pen and phone and then opened the menu. I also took another glance at the guy, as he was seated diagonally across from me, while there was a full row of seats between me and the couple. As I looked, I was struck by the fact that he seemed kind of familiar. But I didn't want to get caught staring, so I went back to the menu, placed my order and began writing nonsense...nonsense because I couldn't help but look at the guy again.
I couldn't place it but I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd somehow had contact with him before, he had dark hair, and long arms that suggested that if he stood, he'd be rather tall. It began to dawn on me that I had, in fact seen this guy, or a very convincing doppleganger. His pho arrived and it seemed kind of rude to ask him about it while he was eating, plus it would be a little embarassing if I was wrong. My soup arrived and as I began to dig in (honestly it wasn't quite as revolutionarily good as my first bowl), I realized that it would be silly not to ask because the chances really were in my favor. So....I said to him, I said:

"Are you a Mambo mover?"

He, looking up with a certain look of 'man I wish Mambo Movers weren't such local celebrities and hadn't collectively been voted 'sexiest man in Philadelphia', replied that yes, he was. I nodded awkwardly and then said, 'you dropped my futon bar down an elevator shaft!', omitting the fact that, in my recounting of this event, I found him charming and extremely cute (even if he suckered me into thinking that he would actually find a futon bar just lying around Philly). We exchanged a few more words on the subject, he said he had heard that, in the end, his boss-type guy had managed to gain entry to the elevator shaft and retrieve the missing part and I asked if he really even looked for a bar and congratulated him on his sexy status (in a good natured non-harpy-crazy-person kind of way). We lapsed back into soup eating silence. A few additional half conversations took place after that point, mostly about the soup and the establishment's choice of aggressive techno music on the speakers. Having been served his soup first, and, it seems, having a bigger appetite to boot, the guy stood up and apologized for the delay in my futon bar arrival. I, having just finished slurping, responded with an appropriately stupid 'have a nice day', as if I were a a greeter at the Gap or Walmart. He went to pay, I continued eating while thinking about how slim the chances were that a)two people with such a tangential connection to one another would end up eating at the same restaurant at the same time (I seriously considered eating pho before Ikea but decided against it), and b)would both be eating alone thus seated at the same table together. I mean, seriously, what are the odds? As he walked by, he nodded and said goodbye.

I finished as much of the food as I could (it wasn't as good, I'm wondering if it's because I didn't request extra fatty broth or the fact that I was completely distracted) and went up to pay. The man at the register looked at my ticket and then looked at me and almost started to punch something into the machine before he shook his head, telling me that the man before me had paid for my meal. What a nice gesture.

This story has made me think about a topic (or perhaps it's an offshoot of the subject) I often think and write about. As does this article that Josh linked to in the last week. You see, the fact that this happened, if my life was a book, television show or movie, really would have some meaning. I would be destined to see this guy again, maybe multiple times and, in the end, we'd kiss or something. And it's a shame that I can't simply be happy with the story as-is, that the futon debacle ended with an awkward but friendly interaction and a free bowl of soup. No, I can't help but feel a little cheated. I'm probably going to live in Philadelphia for some time and I will probably not see this guy again (unless I start going to their art shows, but that would be rather manipulative and I'm not into that), and even if I do, it does not mean that hey, third time's the charm, we'll strike up a really compelling conversation and, I don't know, kiss or something. It would just be a third random event.

Am I ruined? Does understanding that this sort of magic doesn't exist, and still kind of wishing it did, make me just as bad as the people who really think that a relationship's viability can be determined within seconds?