A few weeks ago, after having finished a, "Brendan Burger" (3 kinds of cheese, I don't know what kind), at Connelly's (I think that's what it's called. there seem to be a whole bunch of chain Irish bar/restaurants that don't come off as chains but they really are) up on 40somethingth and Madison:
It must have been around 10:30 last night when I got out of the subway at 14th and 1st. Yes, I was coming from Fortress Hipster aka Williamsburg. Yes, the person I was visiting was white, yet she moved in 14 years ago (and farther east than the ground zero of Bedford Ave) when standard greeting on the street was, "Yo Nigga," and has since been replaced by, "I don't think my pants are tight enough." But this post is not about Williamsburg-bashing (even though I do find it an enjoyable pastime).
The scene played out on 1st Avenue. A young man was dropping off a lady at her front door. They both looked to be in their early 20s. She was casually dressed while he had somewhat of a preppie look. He said goodnight to her and then turned away and walked up 1st. At that moment I wanted to scream, "KISS HER, STUPID," but instead I just watched. She stood at her door and looked in his direction. He turned back and looked at her while he kept walking away. She then looked back in his direction, not once, but twice, before she smiled and opened up the door.
God, he had it in the bag. She wanted him to kiss her, and likely more. I wonder what what she was thinking when she smiled. Did she know that maybe she'd give him another shot at making a move, or did she put him aside, knowing that a pretty young woman in this down doesn't have to go far to find someone interested in her — for whatever reason.
Maybe I should have raced after that dude and let him know how much that chick liked him. I definitely should have gone after him and said, "Listen Stupid, you better go back to that girl because she wants you to put your penis inside her vagina or rectum if you're lucky and move it around until not a single spermatozoa is left in your testes, and if you don't fuck her, I will." That last bit is wishful thinking on my part.
I feel weird thinking about what I saw last night, mostly because I understood. That was me. I was that kid — minus the Le Tigre shirt or whatever he was wearing — but that was me. And even though I'd like to think I've come a long ways since I was at a girl's door wondering what to do next, sometimes those old feelings re-emerge, and I'm fighting shyness all over again.
Maybe I should vocally implored him to kiss her. Maybe I could have been the crazy old guy on the street that acts as a catalyst for them to get grooving ("grooving?" what decade is this?), you know like out of an 80s movie or something. But no. He didn't make his move, and neither did I.
I hope they figure it out.