The last time is saw the Petite Latina Attorney was almost two years ago. She was wearing my bathrobe, drinking a mimosa, and telling me that she needed more time from a man in her life. We had been dating for a couple of months and I was in the midst of opening a new restaurant which is to say I had very little to offer besides late night drinks and breakfast on a Sunday morning.
I had been on the opposite end of the exchange we had this morning numerous times; I have randomly encountered exes when I was not in my most flattering light – in my mind. This morning on the Metro however was different. I was wearing a suit that was designed for crossing paths with an ex, my favorite crisp blue French cuff shirt, and the accompanying confidence one has when you are complimented by strangers on the street. I believe the female equivalent would be a great hair day and the killer black dress. PLA was headed to the gym, hadn’t showered, and her hair was a hot mess of tangled bed head strangled into slight submission by a pink scrunchie.
We exchanged random bits of information from the last two years. She was charming despite the insecurity that shone through her smiles. I wish she knew that I thought her extremely sexy in her gym shorts and sweatshirt.
Given that insecurity, it was little surprise when I received the email inviting me for drinks at the bar of the hotel next to her office. In my role as amateur psychologist (by the by, lem, you still owe me for the full hour even though we didn’t finish your session – I can be paid in cupcakes) I presume her invitation to be more about changing the last picture of her in my head.
What the hell, I am still wearing the suit. I might as well have the Manhattan that is the perfect cocktail accessory.