As I sat on the nearly empty train, I noticed an impossibly good-looking guy sitting across from me. He looked to be in his thirties and despite his conservative attire of khakis and a navy polo shirt (ICK!) he had that confident borderline cocky air about him that reminded me of Bill Clinton. I have a thing for Bill Clinton. His physical appearance read more John Kennedy Jr– especially with his deep brown eyes and wavy chestnut hair. Come on, tell me you wouldn’t be salivating?!?
It is yet another reason why I both love and loathe New York. I love it because of an opportunity like this that presents itself. Where else could a chance meeting like this happen? I loathe it because I NEVER do anything about said opportunities.
My first thoughts:
I look and smell like I was thrown in a blender full of vodka on puree, courtesy of my night before at Vlada.
One thing you must know about me is that when I’m around anything that I’m attracted to I lose my shit. Both figuratively and literally. (No, not actual shit.) While staring at this superhuman man, I inadvertently knocked over my open purse.
“Shit!” I said and stared at the entire contents of my purse emptied onto the grimy subway floor.
“Damn it!” I threw this in simply for extra dramatic effect.
I scooped up what I could and out of nowhere the hot guy bent down to help. Yes, I was totally DYING.
“Let me get that for you,” hot guy said. He reached for a pile of my crap also known as “my life” and instead of picking up my iPhone, notepad, or my make-up, what does he latch onto? My travel pack of tampons. Of course, he did. Why wouldn’t he?
The contents of my purse much like my life should come with a warning label: Enter at your own risk.
I casually snatched the tampons out of his hand and threw them back in my purse.
“Sorry,” he said uncomfortably.
I laughed nervously for no other reason but to break the tension. I felt my face turning crimson. I could only imagine how pretty I must have looked.
Then what happened next, could only happen in New York, or in a horror movie.
“Could somebody help me find my marbles? I’ve lost my marbles,” he said with a THICK british accent while feeling around the ground for some imaginary glass beads.
What the Madonna just happened? Did he just cop a British accent?
I looked around PAINFULLY embarrassed, praying that no one had seen what had happened. Also I wanted to be certain there were witnesses around so they could identify him in the event he tried slitting my throat.
“Yeah okay, I knew you had to be some sort of freak. I’ll get the rest, thank you,” I said sternly and scooped the rest of my stuff up and jammed it into my purse.
“What?” he asked as if I was the crazy one. His accent disappeared as quickly as it had emerged.
I ignored him and frantically checked under the seat for anything else, getting as far away as possible so I couldn’t catch “crazy” from him in the off chance it was contagious.
“It’s from Peter Pan. Didn’t you ever read the book?” he asked. I stared at him blankly. “See the movie at least?”
“Seventh Avenue, next stop,” the man over the loud speaker said.
A lady standing near us tried to push her way to get closer to the doors. Apparently, there was someone who wanted off the train even more than me.
“Hey Toodles, can ya move it along?” Hot guy moved to the side.
“I’m Justin,” he said to me and extended his hand.
I looked him over and studied him cautiously. And then finally said, “I’m sorry. I’m bitter. I’m just used to so many of the freaks in the city. Anyway, I’m Farrah.”
He smiled with a real warmth and sincerity. “Oh like Farrah Fa–”
He cocked his head back. Now suddenly I was the freak.
“It looks like we got everything. It could’ve been worse I suppose,” he added.
“Is that a person? Or a dog, maybe?” he asked curiously.
“It’s a handbag.”
“Oh,” he said. “That’s a relief at least.”
“Thank God you didn’t ask me about the Blue Ball,” I said and sighed.
With that, I arrived at Seventh Avenue and Fifty-Sixth Street and exited the subway car. “Bye, and thanks again,” I said and smiled. He shot me yet another confused look. I’m fairly certain most women in my position would’ve stayed to exchange numbers or at least email addresses. But not me.
Who knows? Perhaps he could’ve been a future ex-boyfriend.
However, I left my future ex behind and headed to brunch to meet-up with the four boyfriends I already had.