You need that spontaneous happiness in life during traumatic moments, tumultuous fights, or just a gray winter morning. Mr. J. P. Morgan had an adorably crooked smile that reached his eyes. Ahh!
Tara had told us all the very first night we were in New York that the only way we were going to meet “Mr. Right” was if we attended gallery openings, society parties, and went to the grocery store on Sunday around 6 P.M., or happy hour after work. I quickly discovered that the grocery store concept was a farce. Forget what the glamour magazines tell you. They're all lying. You tell me, how are you supposed to make small talk in the vegetable aisle? I did happen to see one hot guy in the fresh produce aisle my first week here. With Tara's mantra in my head, I sprung into “available single girl” mode. Should I look sexy while perusing the cucumber selections? No that was tooslutty. He would probably think I used them for God knows what in my spare time. Why not act coy while pinching the cantaloupe? I glanced down to my barely there A-cups and figured that the cantaloupe move was false advertising. In the end, all I accomplished was following him around with a bag of bagels and cream cheese in my hands. If he headed for the frozen pizza aisle, I suddenly garnered an interest in frozen tater-tots. As he headed for the healthy granola, I feigned fascination over the array of marshmallow cereals. When he headed for the shaving cream (no, don't touch that Clooneyesque five o'clock shadow!), I came dangerously close to picking up a can of shaving cream and asking him which would be the gentlest on my legs.
“Excuse me, do you recommend foaming gel or traditional shaving cream?” I'd imagine myself asking as I extended my barely clad leg in his direction. This fantasy ended quickly when I'd absently pointed my toe only to notice my unshaven ankle peeking out of my now bleach-stained sweatpants that sported my high school mascot, a donkey, on the ass. Attractive, right?
So after scrapping the grocery route, I decided that the easiest course of action for someone in my position would be happy hour. It was a no-brainer: alcohol and boys. This was going to be a walk in the park. First of all, Top Shelf was close to home: easy access from our front door to theirs. Second, the drinks were cheap as hell: two-dollar draft beers and mixed drinks for four hours. And on top of all that, we got dinner too! Happy hour was also girls' hour which meant we could eat all the chicken wings and blue cheese dip our hearts desired. Okay, so the place was a dive and it probably should have been called Bottom Shelf, but it didn't seem to matter.
But back to Mr. J. P. Morgan. There he was, and tonight I knew that I wanted to be with him and him only. He was perched on a stool sipping bourbon on the rocks and chatting with some work buddies. His tie was slightly loose around his neck, and his jet-black hair was tousled forward, falling just above his gorgeous blue eyes. Goddamn it, he really was a bona fide hottie. He's what the girls called “a true suit.” Over the past couple of weeks, we'd danced—okay, it was a group circle kind of dance, but our hips bumped and he stepped on my toes at least twice. Could the toe stepping have been intentional? Must check with Tara … But to date, nothing truly significant had happened. He was a familiar face at what now was a familiar joint.
I surveyed his outfit: a striking navy blue Brooks Brothers suit, a button-down, hot pink, checked (extra starch) shirt, accented with a pair of shiny monogrammed cufflinks. Anyone could tell that he was a man who made deals over lunch. But the best part was that he was only twenty-four years old. That first night, Tara had done some dignified snooping. You gotta love older men! He looked like the type who would pay for the taxi, open the door, and buy you drinks. What a dream! Mom would love him and make blueberry pancakes and fresh- squeezed orange juice for breakfast
Tara had told us all the very first night we were in New York that the only way we were going to meet “Mr. Right” was if we attended gallery openings, society parties, and went to the grocery store on Sunday around 6 P.M., or happy hour after work. I quickly discovered that the grocery store concept was a farce. Forget what the glamour magazines tell you. They're all lying. You tell me, how are you supposed to make small talk in the vegetable aisle? I did happen to see one hot guy in the fresh produce aisle my first week here. With Tara's mantra in my head, I sprung into “available single girl” mode. Should I look sexy while perusing the cucumber selections? No that was tooslutty. He would probably think I used them for God knows what in my spare time. Why not act coy while pinching the cantaloupe? I glanced down to my barely there A-cups and figured that the cantaloupe move was false advertising. In the end, all I accomplished was following him around with a bag of bagels and cream cheese in my hands. If he headed for the frozen pizza aisle, I suddenly garnered an interest in frozen tater-tots. As he headed for the healthy granola, I feigned fascination over the array of marshmallow cereals. When he headed for the shaving cream (no, don't touch that Clooneyesque five o'clock shadow!), I came dangerously close to picking up a can of shaving cream and asking him which would be the gentlest on my legs.
“Excuse me, do you recommend foaming gel or traditional shaving cream?” I'd imagine myself asking as I extended my barely clad leg in his direction. This fantasy ended quickly when I'd absently pointed my toe only to notice my unshaven ankle peeking out of my now bleach-stained sweatpants that sported my high school mascot, a donkey, on the ass. Attractive, right?
So after scrapping the grocery route, I decided that the easiest course of action for someone in my position would be happy hour. It was a no-brainer: alcohol and boys. This was going to be a walk in the park. First of all, Top Shelf was close to home: easy access from our front door to theirs. Second, the drinks were cheap as hell: two-dollar draft beers and mixed drinks for four hours. And on top of all that, we got dinner too! Happy hour was also girls' hour which meant we could eat all the chicken wings and blue cheese dip our hearts desired. Okay, so the place was a dive and it probably should have been called Bottom Shelf, but it didn't seem to matter.
But back to Mr. J. P. Morgan. There he was, and tonight I knew that I wanted to be with him and him only. He was perched on a stool sipping bourbon on the rocks and chatting with some work buddies. His tie was slightly loose around his neck, and his jet-black hair was tousled forward, falling just above his gorgeous blue eyes. Goddamn it, he really was a bona fide hottie. He's what the girls called “a true suit.” Over the past couple of weeks, we'd danced—okay, it was a group circle kind of dance, but our hips bumped and he stepped on my toes at least twice. Could the toe stepping have been intentional? Must check with Tara … But to date, nothing truly significant had happened. He was a familiar face at what now was a familiar joint.
I surveyed his outfit: a striking navy blue Brooks Brothers suit, a button-down, hot pink, checked (extra starch) shirt, accented with a pair of shiny monogrammed cufflinks. Anyone could tell that he was a man who made deals over lunch. But the best part was that he was only twenty-four years old. That first night, Tara had done some dignified snooping. You gotta love older men! He looked like the type who would pay for the taxi, open the door, and buy you drinks. What a dream! Mom would love him and make blueberry pancakes and fresh- squeezed orange juice for breakfast
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