A. Comeaux

First Night Out

I first met him at Columbus Circle, directly under the looming glare of Trump Hotel. It was Saturday morning and I sipped a coffee aimlessly. Disgustingly bitter, which was fitting. I felt bitter. A couple walking by laughed in French, maybe Italian. Their joy radiated and tied my stomach into knots. As I hopped off the curb to cross the street into Central Park hoping to disappear for a while a cyclist shouted. “WATCH OUT!”. My dark roast tumbled onto the pavement. In a city of millions I was self absorbed to the point of solitude, I didn’t see him coming. He swerved right to avoid me and came to a screeching halt. Too stunned to apologize, I just stared. His eyes were Forest Green and he stared right back. “Would have been a shame to run over such a good looking face” he said. Something was furiously working in my mind, like a nearly finished crossword. Before I could figure it out he spoke again. “Sorry about your coffee, can I take you out and buy you a proper drink?”. Seven across. The clue; “Certain”. Four letters. “Sure” I mouthed, the word slowly stumbling out my mouth. He squinted, unable to hear my whisper. “Yes, I’m free for dinner”. I said it clearly but I was spectating myself from a distance. What was I doing?