I left out one very important detail about the sixth. In that hour Christine was late, I met somebody else. You figure with all the people shuffling in and out and around Grand Central, this isn’t much of an accomplishment, but I managed to meet somebody who spends a third of their day in this building. No I didn’t pick up a mid-life train conductor, or a lovely janitor. I met a book shop girl while perusing the fictions. I was basically standing there reading Juliet Naked before she chimed in that it was a book store, not a library. I told her that at least Barnes & Noble has comfortable chairs…before looking around and noticing that there were, in fact, no chairs in this busy book emporium. She just smiled at me with her horn-rimmed glasses and messy pony tail. I told her I’d give in and buy the book, if she’d go out with me. She just shook her head at me, grabbed the book and walked it to the register ringing it up. I was overjoyed that that dubious method actually worked, but then when she was done taking my credit card, and having me sign it I was still 7 digits away from my goal. As I was about to ask her what about the date, she interrupted me and said, “Have a good day Mr. Dillinger, pleasant reading”.
Dejected I walked around to wait for Christine. And then when I got home I opened the book up, pulled out the complimentary book mark, and noticed the phone number on it. In an age of texting and number exchanges there was something refreshingly charming about a girl who took the effort to write her number down. I think the little scraps of paper with numbers on them, while easy to lose, are a touch that is long since vanished in this world. And I don’t think this is for the better. Theres something to be said for physical proof of an accomplishment. You can have that number as a keepsake, and a trophy. It isn’t just another in a long list of phone contacts that you play russian roulette with while drunk dialing.
So I called Mia and we set up plans for the next evening. I scanned Time Out and was lucky enough to find a poetry reading going on that night. We arrived early, scanned the place for a table and ordered a bottle of wine. Off the bat she asked me one of the strangest/best first date questions, “Name Your Top Three Cereals”
In the following order I listed them. Cocoa Puffs, Corn Flakes, Fruit Loops.
She told me I must have a thing for birds. I immediately corrected her that I actually hated/feared them.
Why?
Hitchcock.
Oh come on you can’t be afraid of something from a Hitchcock movie.
Birds, spies, guys named Norman, parties where the host is dead in the center of the room, showering alone, seaside towns, strangers on a train, beds & breakfasts.
B&bs?
I’m pretty sure I’m going to brutally murdered in a quaint little bed and breakfast at some point in my life…but the birds I’m most petrified of. To this day I still won’t go into the Enchanted Tiki Room.
Even though they have great taste in cereal?
Even so, that bird is literally crazy over that cereal. I figure we can share a common interest if they get intelligent enough to start offing mankind. I eat the cereal with him, we bond. And then I find a toucan and we share a Guinness.
What about women?
Those kinds of birds are the most likely to peck me to death.
She couldn’t help but laugh at my neurosis. The wine helped I’m sure. And then I got her answer which was abysmally average. She hit me with Apple Jacks. Apple Jacks and me don’t get along, but me and Mia certain did. We had some wine, listened to semi-okay poetry. I may be well read, but I’ve never been one to get remotely into poetry. She seemed to enjoy it though. She shared glances with me, the Merlot, and the poet…while I was off in my head thinking about cereal, stouts, and other birds.
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