The Hooker and the Hermit

Just…no.

Sad and soulful notwithstanding, this man needed an intervention.

Although, spandex is nice for highlighting….

Struck by sudden curiosity, and because I am a red-blooded woman, I zoomed in on the area of his groin.

That’s right, I’m a reclusive pervert, and I make no apologies for it. And, giving the matter some thought, a reclusive pervert is much preferable to an extroverted pervert. I might also be a tad sexually starved, since I avoid all physical, real-life human interaction.

Just a tad.

I walked past my doorman and into my building, keeping my attention fixed on the phone as I studied the bulge in the man’s spandex running shorts. Tearing my bottom lip between my teeth, I boarded the elevator and tried another picture; in this one, he was angled toward the window, half facing the camera. I zoomed in a bit more.

“Whatever you’re looking at must be really interesting.”

I jumped back and away from the voice, sucking in a startled breath, jostling the bag of takeout in my hand, and clutching my phone to my chest. I hadn’t realized that I was not alone on the elevator.

I found him, my companion, looking at me with an amused smile. His blue eyes were suspicious, but good-natured, slits. I recognized him immediately as my very tall, very nice-looking, ambiguously single next-door neighbor.

Ambiguously single because he always had a date, but it was never the same lady friend twice.

I didn’t blame him, not at all. By all outward appearances, this guy was a hot commodity. Impeccably tailored designer suit and Italian leather shoes that announced both power and wealth; a chiseled jaw beneath perfectly formed lips framing stunningly white teeth; strong nose, bright blue eyes, expertly spiked and shaped blond hair. He looked like the type that subscribed to a beauty regimen. I was pretty sure his eyebrows were plucked and shaped by a professional.

I guesstimated his age as just cresting thirty; hard to tell with the meterosexualizing of his appearance. Add to all this a body that reminded me of a cyclist or a runner—lean and well-maintained—and he was a well-groomed wolf in wolf’s clothing, and the females in Manhattan were helpless sheep.

After two seconds of stunned staring, I ripped my eyes from his amused half-lidded gaze and blinked around the mirrored space, trying to get my bearings.

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry; in fact, I was pretty sure he was trying not to laugh. “Sorry I scared you.”

I shook my head, my phone still clutched to my chest, and fixed my attention on the floor of the elevator.

“It’s fine. I was just startled,” I said, swallowing.

We were quiet for a beat, but I could feel his eyes on me. I glanced at the display above the floor buttons, trying to gauge how much longer I was going to have to share the elevator with Mr. Ambiguously Single.

To my dismay, he spoke again. “You’re Annie, right?”

I nodded, my eyes flickering to the side to glance at him and then back to the display.

“I’m your neighbor Kurt.” In my peripheral vision, I saw that he’d turned completely toward me and offered his hand.

I glanced at him again, at his friendly, easy smile and friendly, easy eyes. Then I glanced at the takeout bag in my right hand and the phone held to my chest. I seriously debated whether or not to shrug and say nothing.

See, the problem with being a really well-paid hermit is that you have no incentive to ascribe to social niceties and norms. My company loves me (most of the time); the clients love me—they love the magic I work. I seldom go into the office—only Wednesdays and Fridays. I have an office; I just prefer to work from home.

I’m not agoraphobic. I go out in public, I walk five miles in the park every day, I love the Natural History Museum and visit once a week; as well, I frequent places where celebrities are typically spotted, so I can get shots for the blog. Being a lurker doesn’t require social interaction. Yes, I often people-watch, but I’ve long since learned to bury the feelings of envy at seeing scenes of human connection, like clusters of women, close friends, sharing an afternoon of compassion and confidence, or a loving couple holding hands through the park.

Therefore, if I speak—in person—to more than ten people during any given week, then it’s been an above-average week.

Nevertheless, some part of me rebelled against being rude. I might contemplate becoming a wackadoodle recluse in my brain, but I could never fully commit to the role. Therefore, I shifted my belongings, placed my phone—with the crotch shot—in my bag, and accepted his hand for a quick shake.

But it wasn’t a quick shake. His fingers tightened around mine until I lifted my eyes to his and relaxed my hand. His gaze was expectant, interested, his smile soft and really very attractive. I was wary as to why he was wielding both in my direction.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Annie.” He sounded like he meant it.

I returned his smile as best as I could, felt my eyebrows lift on my forehead. “You, too, Kurt.”

“We should get together some time. Get to know each other.” He said these words in a rush, almost like he was afraid I might disappear before he finished speaking.

“Yeah.” I nodded, trying to mimic his intonation of sincerity. “Sure. We should do that.”

Thankfully, the doors opened. I took advantage of the distraction to pull my hand from his and dart out of the elevator. Of course, he was close behind since we both lived on the same floor.

“You know, we’ve lived next door for going on two years, and this is the first time we’ve spoken to each other?” He asked this conversationally with a lilt of humor in his voice.

“Hmm,” was all I said, placing my takeout on the floor and digging in my bag for my key.

I did know it. But I didn’t think it was all that remarkable. He was a good-looking playboy who likely spent more on one bottle of moisturizer than I did on all my hygiene products over the course of a year.

I did my best to be a mousy, low-maintenance eremite. The chances that we moved in similar social circles or had similar interests were not good. Not good at all. Why talk to a person if you had nothing in common with them? What would that accomplish, other than a painfully stunted conversation?

Successfully unlocking the door, I tossed the keys back in my bag and picked up the food. Kurt hovered at my side, leaning against the wall. Again I could feel his eyes on me. Rather than ignoring him and ducking into my apartment, I turned slightly and gave him a small wave.

“Well, I’m going to go inside now and eat this food.” I held the bag up as evidence. “See you around.”

“We should trade numbers,” he said, reaching into his back pocket for his phone, “so we can arrange dinner.”

My smile morphed into a frown, and I stared at him, my next words slipping out before I could catch them. “Are you serious?”

Kurt’s eyes flickered to mine, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Of course I’m serious. I never joke about dinner.”

He said the words so smoothly, like words should be said, like an expert in banter and flirtation. My heart gave an uncomfortable twist then took off at a gallop. It was one thing to trade polite chitchat in the elevator with my beautiful neighbor when I was certain it would lead nowhere. It was quite another to give aforementioned beautiful neighbor my telephone number and, therefore, permission to contact me for a shared meal.

I couldn’t do that.

I couldn’t.

My table manners were terrible. I’d never been taught.

I sucked at conversation and therefore always ended up tongue-tied, silent, and beet red.

I cussed like a sailor.

My heart-shaped face was very pretty; I knew this. I’d been reminded of it frequently as I was growing up—no one wanted me to forget how blessed I was to have such a pretty face. My eyes were quite large and light brown, rimmed with thick lashes; I had a cute nose that suited my features; my cheekbones were high, my lips were full, and my chin ended in an adorable point.

Which was why my wardrobe consisted of black, gray, or brown pants, skirts, and tights as well as oversized black, gray, or brown sweaters.

I was trying to be wallpaper. This was purposeful. The clothes, my lack of makeup or hairstyle, my quiet and withdrawn demeanor were all typically sufficient to deter interest.

I stared at his phone in helpless panic—confused, horrified. I waited a beat for him to say, “Just kidding!”

But he didn’t. Instead, he lifted his gaze to mine. It moved over my face then back to my eyes—his were still easy and friendly—and I was paralyzed.

His smile widened. “You are too cute….” He said these words like he was talking to himself.

I started, flinched, my eyelashes fluttering at the unwelcome compliment, and I gave into the panic. Looking everywhere but at him, I darted into my apartment, saying lamely, “Uh, my phone is broken or needs repair or got lost, so I’ll just give you the number later, when it’s fixed or I find it. But it was really nice meeting you. Goodbye.”

And with that, I shut the door in Kurt’s face.

***

New York’s Finest

Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*

March 8

If Sporty Spice married a hobbit, had a three-way with a leprechaun, and then gave birth to a sexy, bizarre baby (paternity unknown).