Picnic in the Park

So I’ve had a really unexpectedly nice weekend. I was ready to just do the usual stuff, go to Central Park and sleep on the grass while pretending to read, hang out with friends, go to my all-you-can-drink brunch on Sunday and get some liquid courage to face the week ahead… Instead, I went on a “date” with a guy I met at my fiction writing workshop. He seemed to be a nice enough guy when I met him, but nothing to write home about (get it: writing workshop/write home about…). I liked how he writes because he seems to be pretty much in tune with emotions, and I am a sucker for that. But we never really talked much in class, except for the last day when we went out to a bar for the “let’s get to know each other better” medley. He bought me a drink, and he got me some condoms. Apparently, it’s the new thing in NYC’s bars: they give away condoms which are interestingly branded with the letters of the subway stations. After going to the loo, he came back announcing there’s a jar-full of condoms in the men’s bathroom, to which of course I replied “well, go get me some”. He came back with the whole jar. Major points scored right there.

We e-mailed a few times after that and on Friday, he “casually” asked what I was doing for the weekend, and decided to join me for a picnic in the park on Sat. He got the food, I got the wine. If you know me at all, you know that I got booze-a-plenty: two bottles of white wine and a 1 lt. water bottle filled with the contents of a whiskey quart and ginger ale. Somewhere between the roasted chicken, the cherries and the wine, we started kissing. It was really nice. I honestly cannot say I expected it, but I liked it. Of course, now I cannot stop thinking about it and I need to do something to stop. I cannot be pathetic and desperate and call him and tell him I want to see him tonight. I want to. But I won’t. Let the games begin!