One time I followed this guy. His hair was a tangled web of blond curls that fell to hunched, narrow shoulders. He made me think of a cattail reed. It was wickedly cold, but all he was wearing was a pin-striped suit and a cashmere scarf. Sneakers. I walked out of work, saw him pass me by, and followed him all the way from Orchard Street to Twenty-third and First. He ducked into a coffee shop. I walked in behind him. He sat at the counter. I sat beside him. He ordered pea soup. I asked for hot chocolate. I looked at his face. He was older than I thought. At least twenty-five. His nose was red. He felt my stare, turned. His face was pale, with a high forehead and Nordic features, like a knight, it seemed to me. He looked right at me and shivered. ‘Freezing,’ he said, blowing into his cupped hands.
‘You’re not wearing enough,’ I said.
‘I thought I’d be straight in a cab,’ he said. ‘I always forget they change shifts this time of day.’ His eyes passed over my body. ‘You’re all bundled up.’
‘I always walk home from work,’ I said.
His soup came, then my cocoa. We ignored each other for a few moments.
‘What’s your job?’ he asked. ‘If you don’t mind –’
‘I wait tables,’ I said.
‘That’s a tough job.’
‘Have you ever –?’
‘No.’
I knew we would walk to his place. I wasn’t thinking about making love; he was going to be my boyfriend, that was all. I was already imagining our apartment. It would have those round, paper globe shades on all the lights, and shelves filled with books. He was clearly a reader. So, after he finished his soup, said goodbye politely, and walked out, my cheeks burned with humiliation and loss.