I have a fantasy about how I meet the love of my life. It’s a lot like that perfume commercial from the 80s when the man chases the woman down the street with the flowers that he nabs from a street vendor who doesn’t seem to mind. It’s all in the name of love. So my fantasy is basically that, and I’ve thrown in peonies because it’s my favorite flower and Sam Cooke (Shared via AddThis), because, hello, Sam Cooke makes me melt like lobstah butter.
So anyway, this kind of happened yesterday. I was walking to the metro on my way to pick up my car from the shop because it had to go there after a brick wall fell on the bumper. That’s when a short, squat, fifty-something Costa Rican, said good morning to me. I smiled and said good morning back because I was feeling good. I had a great date the evening before during which I canoodled on outdoor lawn furniture over limoncello and lavender cocktails here. And I was rocking my favorite new-to-me dress from my favorite new vintage shop.
Down the escalator and I hear someone hustle behind me. The little man. Not exactly chasing me down. But he’s catching up. His name is Jose he tells me. Jose also wants to tell me how pretty I look. How I’m “precioso” or something. (Sweet.) He takes my hand and kisses it. (Teetering on the fine line between sweet and creepioso, but I let it slide because I’m trying to go with the moment, to graciously accept the compliment). Then Jose won’t let go. And insists we have coffee despite the fact that I tell him I have a boyfriend whom I love very much. (A lie, yes, and not one I wanted to resort to, but he forced me. I would not allow Jose to engulf my hand and wrist in his mouth. Though he did have soft lips.) Jose recited poetry. He offered to take me to the car shop. He touched my arm, then brushed my upper chest, not dangerously close to nipple necessarily, but not okay all the same. Jose needed a good cheek slap, is what he needed. Instead, I turned off gracious and cranked up bitch and told him firmly and not apologetically it wasn’t going to happen, to have a good day.
If he’d had peonies, maybe. MAYBE. (Not really, but peonies would have been a nice touch.)
Normally, I’d say this interaction doesn’t count toward fantasy fulfilled because in my fantasy, the chaser downer is h-o-t, not s-q-u-a-t. Normally, I’d say it’s hard to be a woman because men are leg-humping lunatics raging on testosterone without a buffer chemical like a nice cc of estrogen in sight.
But I won’t. I will, in fact, say the fantasy has been fulfilled. Not in the ideal way, mind you. But a man has chased me down. Check. Now back to reality. And that reality is a new bag of fanc makeup I was lucky enough to stumble upon last night. I have a one extra shimmery gun metal eye shadow and one extra sheer pink lipstick that I will give to someone (anyone) who comments on my blog.