Tonight, I was sitting at bar at Charlie Palmer’s eating mini-burgers and watching CNN when a guy walked up and asked if he could join me.
He said he’d been at a reception upstairs and they only had beer and wine — and he doesn’t drink beer and wine. So he had been drinking Coke and tequila.
That sounds like Spring Break gone bad.
He had to get the taste out of his mouth, he said. So he ordered a scotch. (But weirdly poured Coke in it too.)
He sat down and kept talking. He asked me what I did. I said I was a journalist. He said he thought about being a journalist. His sophomore year in college, he says, the New York Times came to his school and offered him a full time writing job. But he turned it down.
I don’t believe him.
He does something that involves approving passports and Visas. He thinks he should write a book.
He invited me to come upstairs to the reception. I was waiting for my friend Tracie to finish writing a memo and leave the office — so, I said sure. But when we got there, it was SO BORING.
I see why you left, I told him.
What?
I was thinking that he might be a nice guy to set up with one of my friends. He wanted to date me. He’s 50. And I know that some women will date sugar daddy’s. But I don’t want to.
I told him I had to go.
He asked for my card. I didn’t have any on me.
Just give me yours, I said.
No, he said. I believe in détente.
?
He asked for my cell phone number.
If I call you, you’ll have my number, I said.
There ARE no IFS in my life, he responded.
Okay, I said. Thanks for the mini-burgers. I shook his soft, girly hand and left.
