I walked out of work at 7 p.m. Made my way to the subway. Walked towards Sixth Ave. along 30th St. I hear an enthusiastic “Hi!” and realize it’s a man smiling at me as he drives his SUV along 30th. I smile.
“How are you this evening?” he says, half hanging out the window and seemingly glad the traffic is backed up so he can cruise slowly next to me as I walk. “I’m fine, thank you. Have a nice evening,” I say.
“Would you like to have dinner with me? Pick a restaurant. Any restaurant,” he persists. I shake my head and with a flip of my hair say “No, thank you.” But truth be told I’m thinking of restaurant possibilities in my devious mind. Damn. I know I won’t go. But how much fun is the fantasy of picking a place? Filet mignon, come to Mama. Lobster tail, oh yeah. A crisp glass of Riesling, who’s your Daddy?
Scary what my fantasies consist of when a guy tries to pick me up at dinnertime.
Dessert, well, that’s another story.