I had just been disappointed by my first meal in NYC up the street when though I had changed my mind about taking my poor excuse for Empanadas to go they arrive in a 2 individually wrapped pockets thrown into a plastic/aluminum container wrapped in a brown paper bag. Two people had walked out since they never came back to take their order and I almost left without paying the bill but my conscience allowed me to not leave a tip. So unfulfilled, I walked toward my favorite juice place on the corner when I was stopped by a picture in the window of what looked like a bagel stuffed with meat? I had to read the publicity blurbs on this Israeli joint write-up taped to the window. Quietly he stood next to me and  explained what was looking at. He opened the door and said, “I’m going in.. you might want to try it out.” Holy crap this guy is HOT!! Hesitantly, I followed as the door almost shut. He sat facing the window and offered me a seat even if I didn’t eat or that he would share one with me. A Burekas, if I recall. This chef was famous for making the traditional puff savory pastry. I was wearing sweats rolled up to my knees, a tank top and my black baseball hat covering the almost sticky ponytail from the yoga class I had come from. He was in black biking, full length pants and thin white t-shirt, large backpack and those new, not-so-attractive, toes shoes people are wearing so it feels like you’re barefoot, though protected. Neither of us were dressed to meet new people, in my opinion. He had just come from doing handstands in the park. He stared at me with his “once shy” hazel-green eyes as we shared a spinach and goat cheese filo bagel-looking pastry as I wasn’t hungry from the less than sub-par lunch I selected. We walked to the juice place and he bought us a jusice to share;  carrot, pineapple, ginger. We walked out and he blurted out that he had a couple of hours to kill and since I was just going back to my place to shower off the grime, we took a turn toward the East River.

He is an engineer that was making plastic bottles in Belgium for the last 6 weeks until he decided it wasn’t for him. He was traveling here to visit a friend and ended up having dinner with Congressmen the night before. He is learning to play the single Djembe and blows glass jewelry. With vast knowledge and a wide vocabulary, I somehow feel at ease by his student-like quest for more. His parents hippies from Wisconsin and Israel. We speak about religious theories and acid trips. Staring at one another without breaking eye contact, the intimacy that is attached… He massages my feet, which I felt at ease even as he slips his fingers between my toes explaining the importance of toe separation and posture. I allow this. I massage his shoulders while we lay our heads on his bag. He gives me a book to read while we sit listening to the water break on the ships coming into the port. the time is slipping by and leaving color on my body to prove it.

It is the longest day of the year. He lies his head in my lap as I massage his neck with the uneasy feeling of “letting go” he struggles with. Giving over or up control still lies within him as most of us. He wants to dance with me sometime. He’s one of the most stunningly handsome guys I’ve seen in a long time, with an interesting quality behind it. Like the shy kid that was a late bloomer and didn’t realize he could get whatever he wanted by being genuine and gorgeous. Pulling at his hair and reddening his chest, he relaxes. I see it in his breathing, feel it in his pulse. Trust. Allow. It’s a more loving massage than the touch before. He feels it. I want him to kiss me. It’s getting late and my date for the evening has just texted to cancel on me. We walk off the grass and gaze at the Battleship “Intrepid” before heading to find a bite to eat. It’s been almost 6 hours since we met. He’s off to meet a friend and I to shower off the dirty. We find an Ethiopian spot which was not the sushi he desired but a new experience nonetheless.

We take a picture of the moment and the time comes to walk our separate ways. Passion pours through our full bodied hug. Tomorrow may bring us together again as he wants to repay the oil-less massage. Maybe a free ride on the EastRiver Ferry and a stroll in Williamsburg before he jets back to Miami to help his sister move her furniture back home. Until then.. I shake my head… such different places in our lives and yet some of the same. Wish he wasn’t 13 years younger than me, though maybe I just have a lot to learn.


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