Manhattan Men....Part Deux

Take a chance, she said.

I write here for a number of reasons...for my family and friends, so I don't have to do all those cc's on emails, for people to stumble across and think, "What drugs is that woman on?" (a number of them, and all prescribed, thank you) and to remind me of what I did while here, when I'm in the home and looking at the same dress every day, going.."WOW, new clothes!".

I have such high hopes for my future.

A couple of friends rang me about the Men in Manhattan post, and said, "You know, you should just go ahead and flirt."

I've not flirted since a Tuesday in March in a year that had a 9 and a 7 in it.

I wasn't very good at it then. The nice young man came over, and said, "Would you like to dance?" and I said, "Why?".

That was the end of my flirting days... and I was raised in the South, mind you... a place where flirtation is bred into your genes. My mother is still able to have men follow her progress though a room when she walks by, and she's in her 70's. I remember men asking her out when she was pregnant with my youngest brother. She exudes pheromones the Yankee women exude flaky skin. All of my cousins are the same way. The girls I grew up with... they batted their eyes with the natural ease and grace that generations of women before them did...I tried it and got an eyelash caught, causing a sty.

Tonight, I took a deep breath, and thought, I'll do it. My friend said, "It's no big deal... you are the shyest person in the world... you are loyal and all that crap. It's a DRINK. Do it."

She's right..what can a drink hurt? The last time the idiot ordered champagne. I mean, really. Who orders that for a first meeting?

I digress. As always.

I sit on the train....feeding the terrier the french onion potato chips that came with my sandwich I didn't eat for lunch. I'd picked up a copy of the Village Voice to read. Now, understand, I always read periodicals and such from the back to the front. I don't know why, I just do.

I'd just started my backassward reading when a very nicely dressed man got on the train and asked if he could sit next to me.... the terrier was there, you see. I moved her to my lap and adjusted the space so he could be comfortable.

We did the polite social smile thing, he said I had a lovely smile. I blushed. That's when it started downhill.

I'd made the decision I'd not blush anymore. My skin is rather translucent to begin with, so, when I blush, I blush big time. I concentrated hard on not turning red. Hard. I glanced down at my chest, what I could see of it, and instead of my usual pink, I had splotches. I looked across to the window, and I could see red spots on my cheeks and I could feel my ears burn.

How attractive.

I opened my paper with feigned nonchalance as I crossed my legs, left over right.....dragging my left shoe over his beautiful, knife sharp edged pantleg... black pantleg....leaving a schmear of sidewalk and trainstation dust on said pantleg.

I leaned forward as he did, to dust it off... muttering those "Oh, my dear sweet mother of god in heaven" Catholic curses bumping his head and squishing the dog at the same time, who yelped in his ear for good measure.

Yes, things were going swimmingly.

I snapped open the paper, back pages of course, and again tried to look composed as my ears singed my hair into tighter curls than the curls around my hairline where I was staring to sweat.

Have you ever read the Village Voice? Then you know what's in the back. The back I had opened to HIS side.

Yes, indeedy.

How my hair didn't just catch on fire, I'll never know.

I quickly folded the paper, and shoved it into my bag, humming as if those kind of ads were commonplace... in retrospect, the wrong thing to do.

He tried again to start a conversation... we chatted about the terrier, always an icebreaker. He asked what I did, I told him. I asked what he did, he told me. We started to actually have a pleasant conversation. My face went to it's usual pale shade. I laughed, and didn't snort.. always a plus.

He asked for my number... my heart started to race....dare I? I'd mentioned I wasn't interested in anything, my attentions were held elsewhere.. we Southern women are so polite...he said, it's nice to have someone to go to a film with. I agreed. His stop was ahead. He stood up, blackberry in hand, my name punched in... I'd given my name!

I licked my lips... took a breath...and said the area code.

The potato chips didn't agree with the terrier's digestive tract, and a noxious odour wafted upwards from my lap and into his bent over face. She continued to look as cute as ever, black button eyes never leaving his blue ones.

The door opened, he smiled wanly at me....


....and left.



Maybe he'll meet another woman with my name, and can put her number there so there won't be wasted space.

I've a feeling he'll be checking the A train cars before he gets on them again.