That's the Fuck What I'm Talk About!
I pulled my new hat and scarf closer against my skin and proceeded to the corner of First and First to meet Nathaniel for our "hang out."
I don't know what to call it when we're SUPPOSED to hang out since he's my cousin's best friend and I recently moved here, but at the same time I think we're both attracted to each other (I know I am to him).
He suggested a museum.
Whatever, just get me down in the tunnels and out of the cold.
Back at the Guggenheim. I only saw it for half an hour last week, though, and considering my infatuation with Frank Lloyd Wright I was eager to return.
He paid admission.
We wound around and around up the white halls and conversation flowed freely. We both like to tell stories. He dressed nicely. His smile is enticing.
As we stepped from a room full of photos of naked black men I caught the eyes of someone who recognized me. And then I recognized him. And then I was face to face with Jon-the-kisser.
He hasn't called me since before Thanksgiving when I spent the night on Random Sofa with him and he said, "talk to you soon."
All the millions of people in New York, and I know ten, and hooked up with one, and I run into him in a crowd.
He was strikingly beautiful to me, just like he had been the first time I saw him at the Reverend Horton Heat show.
I said hello. Added a cold, "nice to see you." Then let him go with a twice-chilled, "Have a nice day."
I turned my back. It was so brief that I think Nathaniel barely noticed I'd been talking to anyone.
Jon caught my attention again, but instead of saying anything useful, he just told me that the best exhibit was at the very top.
I was glad I was with someone else and couldn't give Jon any time, but I wish I had said something more cruel.
No I don't.
I wonder if he'll call now?
I might go out with him again.
No I won't.
Anyway, a whole lot of pretentious art people walking in circles really made me and Nathaniel hungery. We had a good laugh at one woman calling another woman "obtrusive" and we were glad neither of us were so called "artists."
Ahhh. Central Park.
Then we had dinner. Not really flirting. But it's hard to have eye contact over a flickering candle and not sense some sort of urge. He defenitiely didn't snub me. I paid for my half of dinner, at my suggestion, and I hope he doesn't feel snubbed.
I hope he calls again. And again.
Twenty-four, philosophy degree, tree-climber (long story), tall, lanky.
He's like Glen. Quiet, but when he talks he tells a story or is funny. He's a good listener and asks good questions. I like him.
Now I'm back at "home" and I called Maggie. Wondering out-loud when Tylere would be back in Cleveland, and she says he is in her living room. We haven't talked in a month.
We talked for an hour and a half. He said he hoped when the phone rang that it was me, and he said it's unfortunate for him that I talk to his sister more than I talk to him, and he said it's ridiculous to think we'd never see each other again, and he misses me.
I bow my head with remorse. Another story of almost. Another story of nothing.
One Boy. Or two. Or three.
All coming close.
All equalling nothing.
At least there's been no email from Patrick so I think that my dissappearance is still intact.
