I hate the late night MTA. Twenty-five minutes for the fuckin’ D train. Another friend’s birthday on the lower east side. Actually the East Village. Fun bars, shitty places to get home from. When it finally comes, I immediately notice these 4 girls who look barely old enough to have breasts dressed in mega skanky outfits. I mean one of them looked she was wearing 3 or 4 pieces of interwoven lace. They get off at their stop and as they walk away some guy remarks, “Those girls know what’s up,” and the woman next to him spits back, “No they do not.” The man insists, “The Asian one sure does.”
At this time, I decide to chime in. “What is it they know?”
They guy spouts, “She knows what’s up.”
The chick looks at me with a smile and reassures me, “Don’t worry honey, we’re talking in code.”
“I figured that. Doesn’t mean I can’t ask.”
The guy bursts out, “She knows what to do in bed.”
“Uh uh, She don’t know the ski position,” correcting her friend.
“I want to be hanging out with you guys.” Then looking at her, “Particularly, you.”
The chick gives me a look over, smiles again, and inquires, “And why me?”
“Because you know the ski position.”
She laughs. Now I’m sitting on a bench that faces the center of the train. And so is the guy, but on a bench further down. The chick sits on a seat that faces the front positioned between me and him. Her back is to me, but she’s slanted over the seat conversating and what not. This is important because after a short while of fun back and forth, I notice her phone face is facing me with her digits. XXX-XXX-XXXX. I pull out my phone and dial them in. When I look up, the number is gone. In it’s place, a message, “Call Me.”
The three of us change trains as I guide them to the 1. I give her a hug, shake the guy’s hand and go home with a hopeful smile. I don’t know why, but I’ve had a thing for older women lately. As I come out of the train station I get a text. It’s Kelly again. “Can we talk on Tuesday?”
—Big Mack attack!