Fantasy commute
I walked out of work at 7 p.m. Made my way to the subway. Walked towards Sixth Ave. along 30th St. I hear an enthusiastic "Hi!" and realize it's a man smiling at me as he drives his SUV along 30th. I smile.
"How are you this evening?" he says, half hanging out the window and seemingly glad the traffic is backed up so he can cruise slowly next to me as I walk. "I'm fine, thank you. Have a nice evening," I say.
"Would you like to have dinner with me? Pick a restaurant. Any restaurant," he persists. I shake my head and with a flip of my hair say "No, thank you." But truth be told I'm thinking of restaurant possibilities in my devious mind. Damn. I know I won't go. But how much fun is the fantasy of picking a place? Filet mignon, come to Mama. Lobster tail, oh yeah. A crisp glass of Riesling, who's your Daddy?
Scary what my fantasies consist of when a guy tries to pick me up at dinnertime.
Dessert, well, that's another story.
"How are you this evening?" he says, half hanging out the window and seemingly glad the traffic is backed up so he can cruise slowly next to me as I walk. "I'm fine, thank you. Have a nice evening," I say.
"Would you like to have dinner with me? Pick a restaurant. Any restaurant," he persists. I shake my head and with a flip of my hair say "No, thank you." But truth be told I'm thinking of restaurant possibilities in my devious mind. Damn. I know I won't go. But how much fun is the fantasy of picking a place? Filet mignon, come to Mama. Lobster tail, oh yeah. A crisp glass of Riesling, who's your Daddy?
Scary what my fantasies consist of when a guy tries to pick me up at dinnertime.
Dessert, well, that's another story.
posted by Nancy Colasurdo | 10:17 PM
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