Chapter Nine: Nice Hands

Three days later found me back in the coffee shop, in what I remembered to be vaguely provocative, attractive clothes, my hair gelled against any frizzing possibilities, and my cynicism dial temporarily set to mute.

Shaun’s profile was amazing: it was as though he’d read my mind as to the perfect man, from his music and film choices right down to his politics. How many men do you know who contribute to both Planned Parenthood and Emily’s List?

There were no pictures attached to the profiles, but I found that refreshing; we would surely have enough to talk about even if we weren’t fiercely attracted to each other, and that had to be more important...

While I was figuring out the most elegant way to sit in a sagging armchair, without the one spring pinging up into my privates, I noticed one of the hitherto-mentioned miserable workers serving a man whose back was turned towards me. She nodded her pierced chin in my direction, and before I could untangle my skirt, which had entwined itself claustrophobically around my pantyhose, he spun around to face me.

“Rebecca?” he said, placing a steaming latte on the table.

“You must be Shaun,” I smiled, desperately wondering if protocol stated that I rise, which, given the circumstances of my skirt and the dead springs in the chair, seemed difficult at the very least.

Shaun saved me by sitting down in a shabby-chic sofa next to me, and shaking my hand. I barely noticed it. I was transfixed by this god sitting before me: chiseled chin, slight designer stubble, and an eminently kissable neck. But I did sneak a peak at his hands. Because that’s the second clue as to whether you will ever end up in bed with a man, the first being whether he is even vaguely attractive. The attraction can grow, but if he has dirty fingernails, or worse, a manicure, it will never happen with me.

Jimmy had nice hands.

I blocked the sneak attack memory from my head, and concentrated on the hand reaching out towards me. Big (a good sign) and muscular, with prominent veins, and - yes! - neat, clean fingernails, void of buffing and polish.

We shook hands formally. Soft hands. Bet they’d feel good on my back. I shook the thought from my head. It had been way too long, but perhaps I should know the guy for more than ten seconds before jumping his lanky bones.

Nice package altogether, lanky though the bones might be. Our hands touched. A definite spark, I thought. I could feel myself blushing and cursed my redheaded aunt for passing on those particular genes.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” he inquired politely.

So dating conversation hasn’t changed since I’ve been out of circulation. I replied with the formatted response, which would have come out of my mouth even if I’d been looking at my watch for two hours:

“Oh, no. I just got here.”

“So. You live around here?”

In any other part of the world this would seem like a normal question. But in Manhattan, that could be perceived as a stalker inquiry. Luckily, each block contains so many hundreds of tiny apartments crammed together that giving out an intersection is not particularly informative.

I gave the low numbered avenue and high-numbered street. He was clearly disappointed I had not been able to provide him with a hip cross-section from the West side, but then so was I. I hated the Upper East Side, but it had become more affordable as its West side counterpart had become trendier.

East Siders claim there is no difference, but there is. New Yorkers everywhere are self-absorbed, arrogant pricks. The West side just has a more forgiving, liberal feel. The children on the East side look as though they just stepped out of some dreadful British period film, clad in velvet and lace. The West Side Yuppies dress their offspring in real kid clothes: baggy sweaters, jeans... Maybe it’s because the north-south subways on the West side run from New York University up to Columbia, hence the liberal academics. The East side subway runs directly to Wall Street.

Shaun and I discussed the peculiarities of this geographical anomaly, as well as the way the atmosphere and one’s safety can change in a matter of one block.

“Ah,” he sighed wistfully. “It was great in the ‘70’s.”

I looked quizzical. Most people recall that decade as the one in which New York suffered blackouts, bankruptcy and graffiti on the subways, a time when it wasn’t safe to walk the streets even outside fancy doorman buildings.

“I miss the crack and the hookers,” he continued. “It’s just so safe now. No one knows how to walk fast any more. They’re weaving around on their cell phones, bumping into each other like a lost generation.”

I decided that I should fall in love with Shaun.

“I don’t have a cell phone, either.”

“Well,” he mumbled sheepishly, “I do, but I never, ever use it without pulling over to the side of the curb.”

“You have a car?”

“No, when I walk on the street. You can’t be swerving all over the place. Let’s be honest: most people can’t talk on a phone and walk at the same time.“

“Right.” There was a pause. “Don’t you think you might be a tad defensive about this?”

Shaun laughed, and his eyes crinkled. I liked that his eyes crinkled.

“Yeah, I’m a passionate kinda guy. When I get riled up about something.... well, this is what happens.”

He shrugged adorably, and stirred his latte. I wondered if it was made with non-fat milk, or if I was dealing with a real man.

“What other topics set you off?” I wondered aloud. “I just want to be prepared!”

“Television!” he gasped. “I got rid of mine five years ago and I don’t miss it at all. I use my time better. I read more. I go see movies. It’s great!”

“So... the big game?”

“Sports bars!”

“The Oscars?”

“Ever since they canned the Debbie Allen dance routine, what’s the point of watching it? To see Jennifer Lopez’s breasts? Nice as they are, I can see those on the front page of the Post the next day.”

Wow. I really liked this guy!