It’s pretty clear to me that if I ever want a boyfriend again, all I need to do is stand outside my door and one will appear. It might not be the one I want, but still: men are milling about on my stoop, waiting for single ladies.
This evening, I got home in the rain and stood for a moment on my step to have a smoke before going inside. Two men were standing under the awning, smoking and waiting for the line to clear at the nightclub next door.
One of them noticed me and looked up. “Hey, how ya doing?”
“Fine. You going home?”
“Your husband waiting for you?”
That threw me off for a second.
“Um. I have a boyfriend.”
“You been together a long time?”
No fool, I: “A year.”
“Are you in love?”
“Yes. Yes, we are.” I ground out my cigarette. This, eventually, is why I’ll quit entirely. Anyone will speak to you when you’re smoking.
“You have a problem with dating black guys?”
“Is this guy black?”
“A year, you said? Shit. If it was three months or something, I’d have a try.”
I laughed and dug out my keys. The bouncer next door is huge and burly, and smiles at me when I go by. Otherwise, maybe I wouldn’t have stopped. But now I was maybe a little nervous.
“Are you going to marry him?”
“Yes. Yes, I think I will.”
He shook his head. “Shit. Everyone is getting married.”
I smiled politely and let myself into the building.