It's around 12:30am. I'm sitting at the bus stop waiting for the trusty 66, again, when a man walks by remarking,
"Ah, beautiful! Perfect! That's what I need, a studious young woman. I'm in love! Ah, in love! Bon Soir!"
Studious? I'm reading a Janet Evanovitch novel. You know? Complete with the hunky guy with super powers who muscles his way into the life and bed of a smart but average woman who is taken by him but resists him as they search for the bizarre and supernatural something he's been assigned to find.
"Bon soir" I answer skeptically.
I'm glad to see him walk on. I'm less glad to see him rush back.
"Oh, you're perfect for me!" he croons peering into my face. I am suddenly awash in eau de whiskey. "I always go out with the worst women." Sad face. "Where do I find someone like you?"
"Don't shop at Wal-Mart" I say stupidly. I had meant to indicate that women like me are manufactured in a nicer store, but it didn't come out right. He, however, took me seriously.
Kneeling in front of me he murmurs more about my wit and intelligence and feminine physicality and how good we could be together.
"Um... I do have like, four boyfriends" I say trying to ward him off.
"That's okay, I have 12 girlfriends."
"I thought you said that you didn't like the women you go out with."
"No, they're terrible. They're all Prada and Gucci."
"Oh, so you need someone between Wal-Mart and Prada."
"Hey, how about I give you my number? You can call me. We'll have coffee. It'll be amazing, I promise you. I'm amazing. You'll love me." He's kneeling in front of me again, one hand on one side of the bench, the other lightly grasping my shin.
"No thank you."
"But you're perfect for me! We could be so good together!"
"No, I don't want it."
"What's your name?"
"Diane." This is my fall back name I always give when I won't give my real name and I don't want to fight about it.
"Oooooh. I'm Arcturo."
"Nice to meet you."
"You too. How about I give you my number and you can call me later?"
"No, I don't want it."
"Hey, I'm not asking for your number. Just take mine and call me. You won't regret it."
"No. I don't take numbers from drunk people."
"No, I don't... I'm an author. There's a reason. I'll tell you in the morning. Take my number!"
He's grabbing at my shin now and I fold up my book and uncross my legs. He apologizes realizing he's been touching me.
"No, thank you." I don't know why I was being so polite to him or engaging with him at all. I think it was because he wasn't scaring me.
"No, I really know we'll be amazing together."
"I tell you what. I'm likely to be here around this time every third Friday of the month." He's not going to remember this tomorrow.
"Oh, that's how it is?" He's incredulous for a second, then whiny again. "Just take my number."
"NO."
He stands up. Gives me a pitying look mumbles something about don't know what I'm missing. He starts to walk away. Half a block later, he turns around and runs back.
"I just know you're perfect for me. I've met my true love!" He leans in and tries to kiss me on the cheek. I lean back and push him away. He has the good grace to leave, maybe some vestiges of social aptitude are working through the cracks in his pickled personality.
"Ah, beautiful! Perfect! That's what I need, a studious young woman. I'm in love! Ah, in love! Bon Soir!"
Studious? I'm reading a Janet Evanovitch novel. You know? Complete with the hunky guy with super powers who muscles his way into the life and bed of a smart but average woman who is taken by him but resists him as they search for the bizarre and supernatural something he's been assigned to find.
"Bon soir" I answer skeptically.
I'm glad to see him walk on. I'm less glad to see him rush back.
"Oh, you're perfect for me!" he croons peering into my face. I am suddenly awash in eau de whiskey. "I always go out with the worst women." Sad face. "Where do I find someone like you?"
"Don't shop at Wal-Mart" I say stupidly. I had meant to indicate that women like me are manufactured in a nicer store, but it didn't come out right. He, however, took me seriously.
Kneeling in front of me he murmurs more about my wit and intelligence and feminine physicality and how good we could be together.
"Um... I do have like, four boyfriends" I say trying to ward him off.
"That's okay, I have 12 girlfriends."
"I thought you said that you didn't like the women you go out with."
"No, they're terrible. They're all Prada and Gucci."
"Oh, so you need someone between Wal-Mart and Prada."
"Hey, how about I give you my number? You can call me. We'll have coffee. It'll be amazing, I promise you. I'm amazing. You'll love me." He's kneeling in front of me again, one hand on one side of the bench, the other lightly grasping my shin.
"No thank you."
"But you're perfect for me! We could be so good together!"
"No, I don't want it."
"What's your name?"
"Diane." This is my fall back name I always give when I won't give my real name and I don't want to fight about it.
"Oooooh. I'm Arcturo."
"Nice to meet you."
"You too. How about I give you my number and you can call me later?"
"No, I don't want it."
"Hey, I'm not asking for your number. Just take mine and call me. You won't regret it."
"No. I don't take numbers from drunk people."
"No, I don't... I'm an author. There's a reason. I'll tell you in the morning. Take my number!"
He's grabbing at my shin now and I fold up my book and uncross my legs. He apologizes realizing he's been touching me.
"No, thank you." I don't know why I was being so polite to him or engaging with him at all. I think it was because he wasn't scaring me.
"No, I really know we'll be amazing together."
"I tell you what. I'm likely to be here around this time every third Friday of the month." He's not going to remember this tomorrow.
"Oh, that's how it is?" He's incredulous for a second, then whiny again. "Just take my number."
"NO."
He stands up. Gives me a pitying look mumbles something about don't know what I'm missing. He starts to walk away. Half a block later, he turns around and runs back.
"I just know you're perfect for me. I've met my true love!" He leans in and tries to kiss me on the cheek. I lean back and push him away. He has the good grace to leave, maybe some vestiges of social aptitude are working through the cracks in his pickled personality.
Um. I'm not sure I think observing the boundary, the tenth time it's been set, counts as good grace.
ReplyDelete@briseur, point taken.
ReplyDelete