This Story Will Have a Bad Ending. Just Warning You.

One Saturday night in New York, I painstakingly got ready for a friends birthday party in the city. Living in Staten Island as I did at the time, this was quite the ordeal.

First, I had to make sure my outfit was appropriately festive.
Second, the appropriately festive outfit had to be warm enough to survive 2 bus rides, 2 ferry rides, 2 (possible) cab rides and several blocks in between.
Third, the shoes that went with the appropriately festive, yet warm, outfit had to be able to withstand a) cold and b) excessive walking.
And Fourthly, the accompanying purse had to be fabulous enough for an evening out as well as large enough to hold my giant set of keys (four of which I had to use to get in my building), my Metro Card, my mini bottle of hair-fixing spray, my lipstick, my blush, my mints, my book (for reading on ferry) and my money. (No messenger bag for me that night! NO SIR. I was going to a PARTY.)

At the end of all my hemming and hawing – something actual New Yorkers never do, along with drinking sweet tea— I had decided upon a very appropriately festive outfit that was warm enough to allow me to wear my party coat (which is specifically for parties, as it does nothing else but embellish the ensemble), a pair of super snazzy boots purchased explicitly because of the low kitten heels but super sexy Come Fuck Me Knee-High Length and a delicious under-the-arm purse that looked sleek and expensive and oh-so-very fabulous.

I walked the three blocks to the bus station at corner of Victory Blvd. Rode said bus to Staten Island Ferry. Boarded ferry. Rode ferry to Manhattan. Walked 5 blocks to 1-9 line. Road 1-train up to Houston St and proceeded to walk around for 20 minutes, looking for Thompson St. Found Thompson St. Walked in WRONG direction for 15 minutes- because GOD FORBID Amy pick a bar that any of us had EVER been to. NOOOOO. Pick some obscure bar that fails to actually be in the Meat Packing District, Greenwich Village, East Side, West Side, etc—JUST SOME RANDOM FUCKING BAR. Gah.

I eventually found the bar, its name escapes me. Something about a cat. Possibly a black cat. I show up, unintentionally but quite obviously fashionably late. Kiss-kiss all my work friends (my only friends, mind you) and start paying $8.50 per Cosmo.

SIX COSMOS LATER…..

I’m sitting in the back of the bar, near the pool tables, and Riccardo has his hand on my knee and OH MY GOD I’m suddenly very aware that Riccardo is six foot two, half-Italian and possesses the kind of beautiful, shiny, thick brown hair that I have always dreamed of having. Oh, and it’s pulled back in a soft pony tail at the base of his yummy neck, his shoulder length locks hanging over the edge of his blood-red collared shirt.

Now, I’d spent eight hours a day with Riccardo for five months and NOT ONCE realized he was a living, breathing VERY HOT male. I was very distracted by not having air conditioning, and then by my long commute, and then by my chronic aching feet and then by heinous roommates, consecutively.

So as I’m becoming more aware of His Hotness, I continue to drink a bit more, eat some food to dispel the coursing of the alcohol through my veins, and then drink some more- just for shits and giggles.

The evening winds to a close and Riccardo and I have managed to place ourselves with the last group of people leaving the bar. It being late, His Hotness suggests we share a cab to the subway.

NO PROBLEM.

But there are no cabs. Not a one. OH, DARN.

So we walk, hand in hand, around the neighborhood. And then we stop at a street corner, under a streetlight and next to a closed little bodega full of fresh flowers and he cups my face and kisses me—just like it was out of a movie scene. My mittened hands slide up around his neck and we have one of those kisses that proves that someone, somewhere, is passing around a handbook to a select group of males that shows, in detail, how one goes about the whole kissing thing without being a giant slobbery slug.

Brilliantly, a cab turns the corner at the end of the block just as we pull away to smile shyly at each other. He strokes my hair back away from my face (furthering my belief in said handbook) and we turn, arms around waists, to hail the oncoming cab.

He gives me another stunning kiss before putting me into the cab, leaning over to kiss that shivery spot right under my ear. I look quizzically at him, thinking we would share the cab to the subway.

Reading my mind, he tells me that he lives 2 blocks from the bar. He’d just wanted to spend more time with me so he’d suggested a cab ride, knowing the cabs were few and far between at 3 in the morning in that part of town.

I glowed. GLOWED I tell you. No illusions of wedding bells and babies or even future dates. I was happy that someone, somewhere, had thought me pretty and funny and smart and given me a Saturday night that made up for every other Saturday night I had spent in the past five months, lonely and isolated from my roommates.

Amidst my glowing, I’d told the cabbie to take me to the ferry. Tonight was a night of luxury. I would go home, go to sleep and spend a blessedly roommate-free Sunday sipping coffee and smoking my 7-dollar ciggies on our beautifully landscaped terrace. Granted, that terrace was in Staten Island but it was beautiful nonetheless. I was planning my day of relaxation, my day of bliss as I paid the cabbie and walked into the ferry terminal.

I picked a seat close to the ferry doors, popped out my book and began to read; totally unconcerned with my 30-minute wait for the next hourly ferry.

The next 30 minutes were not to be spent reading, however.