I heard him before I saw him,
and I looked at my friend and said,

“I want one.”

I wanted to learn the song of his skin,
Instead, I asked him what it is to be a siren.
The stories of the lines he’s written
Of the women.
He lured in to the water
Could he still remember the count?
How many had drowned?

Could he still taste the salt.


SoHo and Serendipity

Part of my job at the bakery is working at tastings of our products in the stores we sell in. You see this all the time, except in our case the person sampling the product is the person who actually made it. I care about it, I care about what you have to say. I made this with my own hands. When you buy cookies for lunch, I can afford to eat dinner.

For the most part I have been working at the new Whole Foods in Brooklyn. It’s an adventure in all things Park Slope. By things, I mean babies. I spend my day awkwardly gasping for air in a sea of glowing, flawlessly coordinated families and their glowing, flawless children.

There must be something in the water(The raw coconut water, that is) because I fear if I stand there long enough I will get pregnant.

I have actually really grown to enjoy the crowd, and I see some of the same people and their glowing reviews make my day.

This week was a change, I had to demo at a store in SoHo. I sometimes joke with my Boston friends that,
“Brooklyn doesn’t know what to do with me.”
I’m not the specific shade of un-cool they adore, I am just not cool.

There’s a difference. It involves show-tunes.

Meanwhile, SoHo just doesn’t want anything to do with me. I was placed by the front door, and every time it opened I would shiver while trying to break through my frozen shell to mutter,
“Would you like to try a cookie?”

Clearly, these people don’t do cookies. Gluten free or otherwise. The first girl to talk to me was named Liz and I actually said,
“Oh God, finally a human.”
She laughed. She bought a cookie.

Eventually, I switched my sales technique to standing stone-faced and avoiding eye contact. I kid you not, it worked. I sold most of our product.

As I was shutting down, he walked in.

Now, I should explain. This was the third time.

It was June and I was on the subway heading home from Pa’s apartment. I had stopped at Bettie Paige to pick up a dress, and I had the bags with me. He caught me on the train, did a horrible job of pretending to read his book. When I got off at Union sq. I turned to see him smile at me.

He posted a missed connection on Craigslist.
“I hesitated, then ran after you towards the L train. I was too late.”

I was reluctant, as the post mentioned my Bettie Paige bags, and I was not out for another(That’s a whole collection of stories) date with a guy who thought I was a bit more Bettie Page than Doris Day. So my first thought was,
Clearly this guy is a serial killer.

My roommate set up a fake email account for me, and we exchanged correspondence until I decided it was safe enough to meet him in a public place.

We had two rather nice dates, then I never called him.
I’m not exactly sure why, it just wasn’t.

Then, a few months ago I walked into one of the open mics I frequent, and guess who was sitting in the back. Turns out he has been going for years. He had no idea I was a poet, I had no idea he liked poetry. He was with a date so I went off into a corner as to avoid trouble.

Then, Friday, in SoHo. He walks in.
He said,
“You just keep on showing up.”
So I said,
“Would you like to try a cookie?”