Method Man

You sat in the Italian bakery: eyebrows raised, head tilted to one side, attempting to look interested while I discussed the intricacies of bridge maintenance and the Wesleyan Quadrilateral.  Your bra straps are revealed to me on one shoulder (which you are aware of); they are sleek and black and are making me uncomfortable (which you are also aware of).     

I was the man with a sweater over my dress shirt (because this morning I was late, and I didn't have time to iron).  I am 26, but remind you of your father.  I am the man who met you after work, chastised you for not wearing a helmet, and sent you home with almond cookies.

Shooting Chartreuse

You were the woman shooting Chartreuse at the Idle Hour last night.  Red lipstick, Carhartt jacket, long johns visible above your jeans...being cajoled into "one more" by myself and the sweet bartender, constantly (nervously) playing with your right earring.

I was the man from Maine who dismantled your bike and, in spite of your insistence that you were just fine, drove you home, and waited just long enough at your front door to make you think that I might like to kiss you.  

Prepare to be attacked.

You were the woman alone in a crowd at the Lithuanian Dance Hall, your favorite night of the month.  I watched you (tall, awkward) lean against the wall, while your friend (lost in the newness of love that you desperately seek) ignored you.  And realizing that your evening had reached its fullest potential you left without notice, walking down W. Lombard, $7 in your pants, $40 in your bra, keys hooked to belt-loops, preparing to be mugged.

Aspiring Chef?

You were the woman in the gold eyeshadow (which you wore for no good reason), sitting alone at The Waterfront Hotel, reading Bon Appetit.  You peered sadly into your Dewars and soda (you wanted it to be Makers and soda, but The Waterfront is going out of business, and you know this, and you don't want to be a bother), and you reminded yourself to breathe every few minutes. 

I was the man in the trenchcoat and hat, who sat down beside you and asked if you were a chef.

You replied, "No."

You bitch.

My New Year's Dream

New Year's Eve, 2010:

Saw you through your windows on Broadway, donned in matching bird pajamas.  Top: Little birds with winter hats on, with the tag line "Life is Tweet." Bottoms: A cascade of hats with similar birds using them for nests or perches.  Watched you drink the half bottle of wine (that you stingily transported from your parent's home) while watching 30 Rock.  You're right...you are Liz Lemon.  I want to congratulate you on not cutting your hair with craft scissors; that was a smart choice on your part.  Happy New Year.