So I go to a party tonight (well, technically, last night). It’s on a rooftop in Manhattan. The food is divine. There is a white sangria concoction that I consume with abandon. I spend much of the evening in a hammock surrounded by fabulous people. A playwright, a prosecutor, an advocate for reproductive rights, a documentary film maker. Others mingle in and out, but our “clique” remains mostly intact. We have real conversation.
This is why I love New York.
So I get on the PATH train to come home. I’m feeling pretty good (see sangria note above). A guy gets on the train and sits next to me. I check him out. Hmmmmmm. He is clearly checking me out as well. As we’re riding towards Hoboken I can see he is particularly enthralled by my feet. What a hoot.
He asks me some inocuous question about whether we have to change trains to get to Hoboken. We chat a little but then we’re quiet again. We arrive in Hoboken and I start walking out of the station. He catches up with me and asks if I’d like to have a drink. I’m ready to say no and then wonder why. In a flash I change my mind and say, “Sure.” We introduce ourselves and head to a bar.
The conversation is good. The chemistry is very good. Definite heat. He asks where I got my pedicure. Says he noticed it on the train. Likes the pink toes with the pink sandals. I laugh, knowing I had him pegged on the train.
We finish the drink and walk outside. He says, “Can I get your number?” I smile and reply, “Well, is that a wedding ring?” He looks sheepish. “Yes, it is.” I extend my hand for a shake. “Thanks for the drink.”
I smile the whole two blocks home.
