June 3, 2004

• Hitting On

  
  

  I have only been hit on by a woman in a public place once in my life.  It was my first month in Boston, and I was looking dazed and confused while wandering through Sears in the Cambridgeside Galleria.  (Maybe the “dazed and confused” look is my thing, just like “The Terminator” is Arnold’s thing and why he should never be in a movie with Emma Thompson.)

  
  

  The details are hazy, but I remember bumping into this woman a few times in the store and thinking that was an odd coincidence, and why was she smiling at me?  She was 5’2″, 110, white, with short brown wavy hair, and a slight Eastern European accent.  Eventually she just came up to me and asked if I wanted to go out sometime.  I was kind of floored and flattered, so I gave her my number, and later in the week we went out for pizza, and I saw her place.  Nothing much happened after that.

  
  

  This past Monday I had the pleasure of watching one of my friends get hit on.    Jane, Dave, and I went to Jose’s Mexican Restaurant after working on the loft.  The waitress (named Iraiz — ask for her if you go to the restaurant) first asked Dave where he was born.  I guess with his dark skin and long lashes, he could pass for Latino.  (And give Abel a run for his money.)  Then we asked where she was from, and we were surprised to learn Mexico, because she had a fair complexion and medium brown hair.  All this time, she was smiling and making eyes at Dave.  Later during lunch she asked him to leave his seat and take a phone call (???) from a customer asking for directions.  Apparently her English isn’t that good, or maybe she was just playing the helpless-female card.

  
  

  By this time, Jane and I are teasing and smirking, and Dave is turning red.  Not the margarita, but the senorita!  So near the end of the meal, she comes over and picks a piece of lint off Dave’s arm.  And Jane and I nearly bust out.  When she leaves I exaggerate an imitation of her, picking imaginary lint off Dave’s arm while fonding his bicep.  When she returns, she asks why we look so serious.  I guess we were wearing somber expressions, trying really hard not to laugh, .

  
  

  Near the end of lunch, I write Dave’s name and phone number on his placemat for her.  But she collects all the dishes and crumples the placemat.  So I write on the credit card slip: “My friend’s name is Dave” and his phone number.  I wonder if he’ll get a booty call this week.

  
  

  I left out the part about the age guessing.  Iraiz thought Jane and Dave were 19, and I was 23.  That was almost as good as watching the flirting.

  • 1:03 pm
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