Page 14 of Girls Will Be Girls
He’s adorable. Like a golden retriever puppy: everything excites him and he’s always happy.
When he’s not grinning, it’s like it genuinely pains him not to smile. Like his neutral face is his lips in that position.
He has a resting grin face.
“Okay.” He claps without a sound. “Where do you live?”
I snort. “That is your hard-hitting, stimulating opener? Where do I live?”
“It’s a basic get-to-know-you question.” He defends.
“It’s a basicstalkerquestion.” I tease. “And is that what we’re doing? Getting to know each other?”
His smile morphs into one I haven’t seen yet. It’s making my palms sweat.
“I’d like that.” He says.
Apparently I’m mute now, as all I can do is nod, my lips open but no words leave them.
“So.” He starts again, saving me from my budding new career as a mime.
I sit there waiting for him to go on but he just lifts his eyebrows higher, leaning toward me.
“Oh. Right.” I laugh. “I live in Brooklyn.”
“Stimulating.”
I fight a smile. “You?” I ask.
“D.C.”
Oh.“D.C., huh?” I try to train the disappointment out of my voice.
“Yep.”
“What were you doing in New York?” I ask, trying to sound casual rather than secretly hoping he’s about to say he’s moving there.
“Work trip. Like this one.” He gestures around. “You traveling for a vacation, or…?”
I shake my head. “No, work too.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a journalist,” I say.
His eyes shoot wide in excitement. “No way?”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Yes, way.”
I feel myself start to fidget.
I always feel on edge when people ask me this — especially men. It makes me feel like I’ll have to justify my chosen area of writing to them, like it’s not real journalism. I can’t tell you how many dates I’ve cut short because of their reaction to my career.
“Me too.” He grins, and my stomach drops.
The one thing worse than telling a man about my job is telling a man who isalsoa journalist about it. Even worse than that is having your meet-cute stranger you seem to be developing aslightcrush on, tell youhe’sa journalist and therefore he has embodied the ick you refuse to get over.
“What do you write?” He continues, unaware of my internal panic.
