I went to dinner with Jib last night, and he told me that since I have not kissed anyone since my last break up, aside from him (he has no idea about Tex... don't tell!) that I ought to get OUT THERE.
I can only assume that by OUT THERE, he means I should be selecting men off an internet dating site and inviting them, one at a time, to disappoint me with their selfishness and stupidity.
I am sorry. Where was I?
Right! I almost LIKED someone!
After Jib and I left the bar, I got into a cab and said "blah di dah, and dah" (which is what we say here when we are directing a cab driver to our homes).
"Where again?" said the driver.
"Blah di dah, and dah" I said.
"Right," he said. I looked at his indentification.
The name was long and ended in "ski"- and I liked it. I also liked the green eyes flashing in the rear view mirror. I looked at the ID tag again - and had a moment.
The fact is, I look at the ID tag in every single cab I get into. I do this because my brother has trained me to memorize the names of cab drivers in case one of them decides to drive me over a bridge and attack me. That way if I live through it, I can identify my attacker and my brother can defend my and my family's honor by shredding the driver into little tiny bits.
I am sorry. WHere was I?
The ID tag: I look at the ID tags so as to know my enemy. But on this particular occasion I found myself looking at the ID tag because I actually wanted to know who my driver was. Reader, he was... hot.
We made eye contact in the rear view mirror. He smiled. Oh... lord. Good teeth.
"Are you from Ireland?" he said.
The answer to this question is, obviously, no. However, my ancestry is nearly all Irish. Since I do not have an Irish accent, I thought he must have been looking at the fair skin and the big ears and the strong jaw. So I said yes rather than explain.
"Yes," I said.
"I can tell by your accent," he said.
I nodded silently. We were now four precious blocks from being torn from each other forever, so there was no point explaining that my family has been in this country, on both sides, for upwards of three-hundred years. I cannot possibly have an accent, other than upper-mid west news caster nuetral. Obviously, he was just talking to me.
Guess what I did next? You're not going to believe it. I don't quite believe it myself. I talked to him.
"Where are you from?" I said.
I even smiled back at the rear view mirror. I checked out the hand-wrist-forearm ratios as he turned onto Madison Avenue. Measured very appropriately. I sat back and collected myself. Heart banging around in my chest a bit. Hands a bit restless. Began having feelings.
"I'm from Brooklyn, but my family is from Russia. We've been here four years."
For the first time I noticed the peculiar lift in his voice around last syllables - almost imperceptable, but definitely there. He smiled again. Glossy black hair, five o'clock shadow, shoulders like...
Look, it was really bad. Or was it really good?
He stopped the meter about three blocks away from my apartment. I had a moment, yes, when I thought that perhaps my heart was banging around in my chest because he was, in fact, about the drive me over a bridge and murder me, but no. He drove me up to my place, and I paid him.
As I gathered my belongings and my composure, he turned around in looked me right in the face.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but you're adorable. Your accent too." Shy smile. "You're adorable."
"Thanks," I said. Safe out on the sidewalk, I looked back into the cab and said, "so are you."
He winked at me and drove away. And right now, my brother is weeping silently and wondering what the family did wrong to have raised such a impudent slut. Sorry, dude. I couldn't help myself.
Reader, I almost liked someone. In fact, I think I might have ALL THE WAY liked a New York City Taxi Driver. That's either totally disgusting or totally um, whatever. But...