New York Fashion Week, there was a fabo party by Jacob the Jeweler at the Bentley dealership on the West Side. I was standing at the bar with Bianca, twirling a piece of my fluff around my index finger and waiting for my drink (they ran out of glasses) when a very lovely, chocolate, six-three , beareded specimen appears beside me. He elbows for room at the bar, bumping me.
"Mister," I say, glaring at him and pushing back into my space. "I know you see me standing here."
He assesses me for a few moments without saying anything. Then finally blurts, "You need a perm."
What?!
I fix my mouth to curse him out and he cuts me off. "It's really too much. You're trying too hard for attention. I like it though. But I still think you should perm it."
What?!
I cannot find my voice for some reason. Then he pulls my hair. Smiles. Is he flirting with me?
"What's your name, cutie?"
He is.
God help me but I find his asshole-ish-ness appealing. We chat about everything except the usual things people chat about when they first meet. He's totally random talking about glass bottom boats, the percentage of men in the United States who stand 6 feet or taller (14%) and perms. He orders our drinks ("you'll have what I'm having," he says). He hands me my glass of whatever and with a wink, he departs.
The rest of the night, every time he passes me, he makes a point to speak. He takes my near-empty glass and replaces it with a fresh drink. Another time, he pulls my hair again. Another time, he saddles up to my friends and introduces himself as my future ex-husband. He catches me on the dance floor doing my slightly-tipsy 2 step (normal for DC, odd for NYC) and he grabs my hand, and we dance. No bumping and grinding and backing it up, actual, real dancing. We were totally in sync. He knew my next move before I did. He's a GREAT dancer. I'm totally feeling his energy. Five dances and one almost-sticky shirt later, I scream, "Mister, who are you?!" and laugh with glee.
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