I'm Lonely, You're Lovely, Let's Hold Hands

On Sunday I was jogging across the Brooklyn bridge and ran past a dark, wrinkled man who looked up at me and grinned with the light of a full moon.  "You're beautiful," he said.  His voice scratched with a density comparable to the summer heat.

My friend was riding her bike to meet me.  At precisely the same time, another gentleman, surrounded by a group of friends all wearing tight undershirts and baggy pants, shouted at her.  "I want to fuck you in the butt!" he said.  She swerved, then continued.

Two minutes later, near Duncan, Oklahoma, a young mother was pushing her shopping cart through the local Walmart.  A small fellow with a round face hissed in her direction.  She rolled her eyes and turned away from him.  She did not know it then, but would later realize she took the gesture as a compliment.

Three days prior, a young man with gentle eyes and a shaggy haircut was delivering a package of anti-aging supplements to a woman who lives in an expensive apartment on Central Park West.  When she opened the door to receive the product, her heart (encouraged by the two martinis she had consumed for breakfast) jumped out of her robed body and onto his sleeve.  She reached for it, grabbing his left arm in a gesture of cinematic passion (only it was awkward because she had not practiced it before) and kissed him.  He was confused and had to hold her up.

The beautiful drummer who has a studio down the street is right now eating Chinese food with a woman who giggles and flicks her long, shiny hair with chopsticks as she asks him a series of questions that all begin with "Don't you think…"  She does not listen to his answers and instead imagines the sharp sting of his drumsticks on her body.  He knows she is doing this.