The type of evening that cliché romantics are made of.
It was even raining.
And not the kind of rain where you get uncomfortably and unflatteringly drenched.
It was the ambiance-driven, pitter-patter kind of rain that is reflected on the sidewalks and decorates the lights.
Even I had to admit that it was lovely.
The loveliness of a summer night in New York.
So lovely that I felt in love, not with a person but with the city itself. The sidewalks, the puddles, the people walking through the puddles. You have to understand I love in LA where rain is not only an unwelcome, infrequent visitor, but a visitor that clashes with its own clichéd, beachy landscape.
But this night I was in love….So much so that when I started talking to a guy after a late night show who asked if I wanted to continue our banter over a drink across the street, I said, “Yes,” mostly because I didn’t want to end my date with NY. I didn’t want to say good-night to my favorite city.
So I went. I went across the street with this stranger from Long Island who was a beer connoisseur/musician (always the musician) where he picked me out an ale as we discussed our favorite music and books, particularly George Orwell’s, “1984” until 4am.
And then the most amazing thing happened.
We met. We chatted. We walked back to my hotel and I surprisingly didn’t have to give some ridiculous excuse about how tired I was or how I had to cut this evening, which somehow turned to morning, short, nor did I have to do that weird dance that one has to do when you’re trying to move away from someone.
‘I’d love to see you again. Call me when you’re back in town,’ he said.
And I thought about it. I thought about calling this great guy from NY, because truth be told I have been there since.
But I couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t be familiar when I wanted to remain a stranger.
A stranger who met another stranger in the city with pitter-patters and romantic clichés.
A stranger who met another stranger in New York.