What Happens When You Connect With Your Missed Connection

Our drinks nearly finished, I dug out my wallet and debated going so far as to offer to pay for his beer as well as mine when it occurs to me that I am, as always, low on cash. Holding the blue debit card between my index and middle finger, I wait for the bartender to make his way back in our direction.

“I’ve got it,” Dick offers, pulling several bills from his wallet and setting them down on the bar. “So… maybe that 10:30 show time is a bit too late? You know, since you want to call it an early night an’ all.”

The fact he waited until this late in the evening to pull this, sidestepping that the only reason I’d agreed to go out with him was to see the movie, vexes me. I excuse myself to the bathroom to regroup. Panties around my ankles, I go over the facts while I pee. It’s too late to head into Soho alone and I can’t think of a way to exit the situation gracefully; especially now that I’ve realized what I thought were the pains of a sore lower back was really the start of my period. I wad up some tissue to serve as an impromptu tampon, thank the stars for the emptiness of my womb and head back to the table, wishing this were a legitimate excuse to just call it a night.

Despite having bailed on his offer to watch movies the week before, I agree to go back to his place to eat popcorn and watch an old movie.

“Should we stop through Bourgeoisie Foods and get you some popcorn?” I’m amazed he knows the word, let alone knows how to pronounce it. Pushing my assumption of his ineptitude in commanding the English language aside, I nod and follow him inside, staying close behind him as he winds through the narrow aisles of metal bakers’ racks.

With six and a half feet of shelf space crowded by all the processed organic-vegan foodstuffs a hip Brooklynite could desire, I’m surprised by how quickly he locates an endcap loaded with an array of popcorn options. Obviously, someone is doing his shopping here on the regular. He pays too much for a box of ‘Natural White’ and we walk back to his place in relative silence.

The massive cement room that serves as kitchen, living, and storage space in Dick’s apartment is crowded with people; several of his roommates and a group of their friends. I stand uncertainly on the edge of the group; they don’t greet each other and I don’t feel the need to introduce myself. I make a beeline for Dick’s bedroom as I hear him rip the cellophane off one of the bags of popcorn. He joins me a few minutes later, bowl of fluffy white kernels in hand.

I’ve never seen any of the movies he lists, naming off whichever ones I’m assuming he thinks I’ll be impressed by from the stacks of VHS cassettes towering next to his bed. Eventually he realizes I’m not going to make a decision and decides on Raging Bull with Robert DeNiro playing some famous boxer I’ve never heard of. I don’t know shit about the history of the sport but find myself roped into the story line, watching Jake La Motta’s personal life fall apart on the old TV.

The half-finished tall cans of Bud sit on the table by the head of his bed, forgotten once Dick’s hands begin to move over my side, onto my stomach.

“I’m ummm…” I chuckle self-consciously. It’s been a long time since I had to do this; warn a guy that I’m on my period before things go too far. “We’re on the tail end of my period.” I wait for him to decline, for his hands to find their way back out of the top of my pants, but he surprises me.