a food writer, and I test recipes on the side. I have a blog.”
“Do you have a card? With your website on it?”
“I do,” I say fumbling in my bag. I’m down to my last one, it’s a bit damp, and crumbs from the bottom of my purse are clinging to it. I brush it off, and wonder if he’ll think it’s too gross if I hand it to him.
“Cool. I’m an art director,” he says, taking the card and pocketing it. “My name is Ken by the way. My friends all call me a foodie. I hate that word, but it’s kind of true. I like cooking, and I really love eating out.”
“Food is… really great,” I say awkwardly. He smiles encouragingly. “Really. I eat it all the time.” I’m starting to sweat. Not pretty. I try to scratch surreptitiously under my arms. Beneath my coat, perspiration is making me feel all prickly.
“Glad to hear that. I was just thinking that I’d love to take you out to dinner some night. Do you like Ethiopian?”
Oh my God. He’s asking me on a date.
I see Hudson bounding up, holding something in his mouth.
“Hudson! Put that down. We don’t pick up trash in our mouths,” I say. I hear my rigid, school-marmish tone. Does this guy think I’m a stick-in-the-mud? “Hudson,” I try again, “bring that to me. That’s right. Come here. Good boy. I’ll take that.” I hope I sound less uptight. My peppy little angel is headed right toward me, so I bend over and hold out my hand.
At the last minute, Hudson veers and lasers in on the guy. He drops the magazine from his mouth, onto the guy’s feet, and sits down, looking very pleased with himself.
“I’ll get that,” I say quickly. I don’t want him to think my dog and I are litterbugs.
“Don’t worry.” He’s already reaching for it.
“No, really, I’ve got it.” I bend over to grab it and smack my skull into his.
“Ow!” I say, rubbing my head. “I’m so sorry!”
He’s got the magazine in his hand. “Don’t worry. He points to his head. “Hard as a rock,” he says with a laugh. “Hey, you didn’t answer. Would you go out to dinner with me?”
I reach for the magazine, but the guy is examining it. He turns it over, and to my horror, it’s American Bride.
Hudson’s on his feet, with his expressive tail high in the air, wagging like metronome on the verge of exploding, looking from one to the other of us.
The guy laughs out loud, and points to the magazine’s cover. “You have to go out with me now. Your dog obviously has big plans for us.”
I can feel my whole face go red. Could I go out with this guy? I wonder to myself. It’s been a long time. Why not? It’s crazy that I’m a food blogger and I haven’t eaten out at a nice place in… how long?
“I guess dinner would be OK,” I say, doubting that’s the truth, even as I say it. I’m talking slowly, turning the possibility over in my head, thinking through any potential pitfalls. What would we talk about for two hours?
“Great! Have you heard of that new place in Chelsea? The Fork?”
“No, I haven’t.” I’m embarrassed. The truth is, I don’t know what’s hot or new on the city restaurant scene. “Is it new?”
“Really new. It’s James Keyes’ latest. American comfort food. He’s the chef behind Four Chairs and East 4th. Do you know of him?”
I feel like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water down my back. “Oh, I definitely know of him. In fact, I know him.”
“Cool!” How did you get to know someone so famous?”
“We went to culinary school together. You know what?” I say, scrambling to pull on my gloves and gather my belongings. “Thanks anyway, but I’m super busy. I really don’t think I can work in going out to dinner any time soon. I’m sorry, we have to go now,” I say, lunging toward Hudson, and snapping the leash onto the ring of his harness in one swift motion. I snatch the magazine from the guy’s hand, and zoom for the gate, dragging my unwilling canine behind me.
“Wait!” the man calls. “Your coffee!”
By the time he says it, I’m locking the second gate behind me. I chuck the copy of American Bride into a trashcan, and cut around the museum instead of taking the shortest route home. Hudson won’t stop tugging in the opposite direction.
“Huddie, no,” I pant. “We’re not going back.”
He sits down on his rump and gazes at me. It looks like he’s raising his one black eyebrow.
“It’s just a bad idea. I just want to keep things simple right now. Let’s go boy,” I say, gently tugging on his leash. When I hit the avenue, I’m just starting to slow from a jog to a normal gait. My phone buzzes on my coat pocket, and I pull over in front of the German bakery in the middle of the block. I can smell the butter and raspberry from the Linzer tarts and my stomach starts to rumble. I’ve missed breakfast, now I just want to get home, make myself lunch, and maybe, just maybe, slip into my PJs.
Pulling out my mobile I see a string of text messages waiting for me.
Can’t phone, so texting. Utterly mad on Rock Plaza. Our life-sized Elf On A Shelf developed sudden-onset agoraphobia and won’t leave her trailer + pranking flash mob dumped buckets of marbles onto skating rink
This just in: Xmas Eve at yours is no-go. *Big* celeb getting engaged onstage with the Rockettes. Say you’ll come to Radio City that night, and we’ll order in from Mangia. Still hoping to make it for Xmas dinner at yours. I don’t want you to be alone. x
OH, and don’t think you’re skiving off on me tonight. You can be my date. I expect to see you here by 7 sharp. If you behave, I’ll bow out and fix you up with Kermit the Frog. xo
I guess I’ve finally hit bottom. It’s come to my aunt accepting the fact that the only dates anyone can see me having are with a spinster or a puppet. Of course, I just threw away a chance with someone who seemed like a nice guy. Maybe I have become a crazy dog lady. But isn’t that OK? Is there a law that says I have to put on a coconut bra and dance on barroom tables every weekend? Why can’t I just be me, by myself, the way I want to be?
“Excuse me,” a man barks, pushing past me to get in the door to the bakery. “Nut job,” he mutters under his breath before pushing into the shop. I look at the phone in my hand, and realizing I’ve been staring at it for quite awhile now. I glance down to see Hudson doing a little dance, hopping from one foot to another to another.
“Sorry boy, are you getting cold? Let’s go.”
I turn downtown, the shortest route to my apartment, but Hudson won’t stop tugging in the opposite direction.
“Huddie, no,” I tell him. “We’re not going back.”
He sits down on his
