So… I walked to Trader Joes. I had some minor shopping to do, and what better way to enjoy the night zephyr than with a brisk walk through my hood.
My groceries included: Fat Free Vanilla ½ & ½, hummus, pitas, pickles, and Sea Salt.
I’m approximately 4 blocks form my dwelling when I hear it.
A whistle. No, not like somebody whistling a tune, or something that could be confused as a whirring or screeching noise,
ENTER: MONOSYNAPTIC REFLEX
but a distinct whistle.
I turned to face the noise, unwillingly, as my body took over.
There he was. A Hispanic male, probably about 28 years of age, approximately 500 feet away from me, seemingly to be a part of the Jiffy Lube work force.
He waved at me
I thought: either this gentleman thinks he knows me, or I must have a pretty good profile from the nose down. SEE ALSO: I was wearing a hat.
Imagine this view from about 500 feet away:
He waved. You can’t stop your body from reacting. Like any good American citizen, I tried to return the gesture. My hands were filled with groceries, so I did this kind of half lift of the groceries, half nod move (yeah, that’s going down in the books) in response.
I continued my pilgrimage. DESTINATION: home
Approximately one minute later, I hear another noise. Someone is coming up behind me (QUICK RUN – she thought).
It was the Hispanic male (men, you scare me).
He was riding a bike (wait a minute, back up, do you mean to tell me this guy chased you down on a bicycle?)
I felt awkward.
He asked if he can help me carry my groceries, and said I was very cute.
Hm. I must have some killer cheek bones.
In any other circumstance, I might have recognized his chivalrous notion. But let’s face it, I’m a Jersey girl at heart.
I declined.
He asked my name.
I said Nelissa. (yeah, that’s right, not “Melissa” with an “M” but “Nelissa”. I have no idea where the hell that came from)
He asked me if I lived in the area.
I said “no.”
He asked me if I was visiting friends.
I said “yes.”
He asked me if he could have my phone number.
I said “why, don’t you have your own?”
He laughed.
I picked up my pace.
He got the hint.
He told me to have a nice day.
As I rounded the corner of my apartment complex, I couldn’t help but think the myriad questions I had for this young man:
- How many other women have you chased down with your bicycle today?
- Was that bicycle just sitting there and you happen to see it and pick it up, or is it yours.
- Did you just leave work, or are you still on the clock?
- Do you have to pay for that uniform, or did it come with the job?
It could have been my destiny. I could have dropped my groceries and jumped on to the back pegs of his BMX and rode off into the sunset.
Moral of the story: when considering purchasing a new bike, go for the bicycle-built-for-two. It’s a real chick magnet.
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