On the way home from last night’s Tribal activities in Brooklyn, I stopped at Gristede’s for something frozen. I was melting.
While nothing screams, SINGLE like a late night Hagen Daas purchase, I don’t usually mind. I do single like Michael Jackson does crazy — with gusto. So I flounced down the aisle in my sweater set and summer skirt (having a new appreciation for my calves, which Krissa has deemed nice and curvy), snagged some cookie-dough ice cream, and headed toward the register.
That’s when I saw him.
My last thought, after he looked up and smiled at me and just before I lost all cognitive abilities was, “Holy shit, I forgot they made them like that.”
Tall, tan, sparkly blue eyes, wavy brown hair and damn if that white t-shirt didn’t fit like a dream. I undizzied myself for the forty-five seconds it took to pay for my ice cream. He’d finished paying, too. Our brief encounter at the automatic door produced nothing more than his “Have a good night” to which I responded…
He smelled like sunscreen and clean laundry, two scents which shall now register on my list of aphrodisiacs (right up there with regular Trident and warm vanilla). I smiled, which may have seemed coy (one can only hope), but the truth was, I was speechless – all butterflies and libido. Seconds later when we’d left the store, he went left and I froggered my way across the street — the two of us headed in separate directions supposed to happen in these kinds of encounters.
As I fumbled with my key in the gate, I thought again, “Holy shit, I forgot they made them like that.”
It was a fucking fantastic reminder that they do.