There is someone behind me. I know without looking – I can sense that the person is a man, and that he’s standing too close to me as I wait on the sidewalk for the light to turn.
The light is not turning. It is the longest red light in the history of red lights. I am late and impatient and about to bolt into traffic when the man behind me puts his hands over my eyes and says in a sweet, laughing voice, “Guess who?”
“Who?” I say, trying to smile through my deep hatred of this game.
“Guess!”
I can’t place the voice. Surely the light has turned by now.
“Really, who is it?” I say, impatiently, attempting to swivel around to see him. He deftly moves aside to keep his identity a secret.
“Tell me!” I say. “I have to go!” I am now very annoyed. I want to rip his hands from my face, but for some reason, I am worried about being impolite.
The man removes his hands, dropping them at his sides. I can hear the disappointment in the drop. I am no fun. I am not playing along.
I turn to see who it is. For a moment, I imagine old college boyfriends and awkward conversations that I’d normally avoid by hiding in Duane Reade.
But when I turn he is already gone, zigzagging like a child down Fifth Avenue.
Photograph via foto decadent.
