Scenes From the City: A Knitting in the City Wintertime Surprise (13 page)

I’m not agoraphobic. I go out in public, I walk five miles in the park every day, I love the Natural History Museum and visit once a week; as well, I frequent places where celebrities are typically spotted so I can get shots for the blog. Being a lurker doesn’t require social interaction. Therefore, if I speak—in person—to more than ten people during any given week then it’s been an above average week.

Nevertheless, some part of me rebelled against being rude. I might contemplate becoming a wackadoodle recluse in my brain, but I could never fully commit to the role. Therefore, I shifted my belongings, placed my phone—with the crotch shot—into my bag, and accepted his hand for a quick shake.

But it wasn’t a quick shake. His fingers tightened around mine until I lifted my eyes to his and relaxed my hand. His gaze expectant, interested; his smile soft and really very attractive. I was perplexed as to why he was wielding both in my direction.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Annie.” He sounded like he meant it.

I returned his smile as best as I could, felt my eyebrows lift on my forehead. “You too, Kurt.”

“We should get together some time. Get to know each other.” He said these words in a rush, almost like he was afraid I might disappear before he finished speaking.

“Yeah.” I nodded, trying to mimic his intonation of sincerity. “Sure. We should do that.”

Thankfully the doors opened. I took advantage of the distraction to pull my hand from his and dart out of the elevator. Of course he was close behind since we both lived on the same floor.

“You know, we’ve lived next door for going on two years and this is the first time we’ve spoken to each other?” He asked this conversationally, with a lilt of humor in his voice.

“Hmm,” was all I said, placing my takeout on the floor and digging in my bag for my key.

I did know it. But I didn’t think it was all that remarkable. He was a good looking playboy who likely spent more on one bottle of moisturizer than I did on all my hygiene products over the course of a year. I was a mousy, low maintenance hermit. The chances that we moved in similar social circles or had similar interests were not good. Not good at all. Why talk to a person if you had nothing in common with them? What would that accomplish other than a painfully stunted conversation?

Successfully unlocking the door, I tossed the keys back in my bag and picked up the food. Kurt hovered at my side, leaning against the wall. Again I could feel his eyes on me. Rather than ignoring him and ducking into my apartment, I turned slightly and gave him a small wave.

“Well, I’m going to go inside now and eat this food,” I held the bag up as evidence, “See you around.”

“We should trade numbers,” he said, reaching into his back pocket for his phone, “so we can arrange dinner.”

My smile morphed into a frown and I stared at him, my next words slipping out before I could catch them. “Are you serious?”

Kurt’s eyes flickered to mine, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth; “Of course I’m serious. I never joke about dinner.”

He said the words so smoothly, like words should be said, like an expert in banter and flirtation. My heart gave an uncomfortable twist then took off at a gallop. It was one thing to trade polite chit-chat in the elevator with my beautiful neighbor when I was certain it would lead nowhere. It was quite another to give aforementioned beautiful neighbor my telephone number and, therefore, permission to contact me for a shared meal.

I couldn’t do that.

I couldn’t.

My table manners were terrible. I’d never been taught.

I sucked at conversation and therefore always ended up tongue tied, silent, and beet red.

I cussed like a sailor.

My wardrobe consisted of black, gray, or brown pants, skirts, and tights; and oversized black, grey, or brown sweaters. I was wallpaper. This was purposeful.

I stared at his phone with helpless panic—confused, horrified. I waited a beat for him to say, “Just kidding!”

But he didn’t. Instead he lifted his gaze to mine. It moved over my face then back to my eyes—his were still easy and friendly—and I was paralyzed.

His smile widened. “You are too cute…” he said these words like he was talking to himself.

I started, flinched, my eyelashes fluttering at the unexpected compliment, and I gave into the panic. Looking everywhere but at him, I darted into my apartment, saying lamely, “Uh, my phone is broken or needs repair or got lost, so I’ll just give you the number later, when it’s fixed or I find it. But it was really nice meeting you. Goodbye.”

And, with that, I shut the door in Kurt’s face.

***

New York’s Finest

March 13

If Sporty Spice married a hobbit, had a three-way with a leprechaun, and then gave birth to a sexy, bizarre baby (paternity unknown)

Guess who was spotted this week looking equal parts hot and ridiculous in every kind of synthetic fabric currently manufactured by the miracle of chemical engineering? None other than Colin Farrell (or his doppelganger) down near the Village. Obviously no one loves him. Friends don’t let friends dress like this (unless it’s cosplay or part of a bedroom role-play fantasy). If you take a look at the pictures above, you’ll certainly understand my horror at finding anyone willing to wear lime green Lycra and speedo running shorts. The only explanation I can think of is that he was drunk (you know how those Irish enjoy their whiskey… and beer… and any and all alcohol).

I could have forgiven the spandex, but I can’t forgive the freaky feet. Toe-shoes are never okay. They’re weird and disturbing and really, really pretentious. And, as an aside, for those of you who are interested in looking like a hobbit, this particular brand of toe-shoe will set you back $635. That’s right! You too can look like a weird little man for the very low price of six hundred and thirty five dollars!!! WTF?

Also, for the record, Colin needs to invest in a cup. Yes, I enjoy the occasional bulge, but this bulge was verging on concealed weapon status. If he continues to run around in these spandex shorts, he will only have himself to blame for the gropings. Goodness, if I’d been within arms-reach I definitely would have copped a feel. Amiright, ladies? You all know how I like my bangers and mash and there’s nothing more Irish than sausage!

Booyah!

<3 The Socialmedialite