Missed Missed Connections
F Train, man-for-woman
On the F Train headed uptown. You were a vision in a “Do I Look Like a Fucking People Person?” shirt; I was manspread across seats meant for three. “Stop clipping your nails,” you snapped at me. “I’m trying to eat.” But the gleam in your eye hinted at something deeper, and when the man said, “It’s showtime!” it seemed like our first date had commenced. You exited at West 23rd Street. Now, all I have to remember you by is the mostly empty spaghetti carton you left on the seat.
Bialystoker Synagogue, man-for-man
You: a black-clad Hasidic gentleman, somewhere between the age of 23 and 67, with the most ravishing black beard the Lower East Side has ever known. Me: the cute blonde boy, 29ish, walking by the Bialystoker Synagogue last Friday evening. You caught my eye and cut to the chase, asking me if I were Jewish. I answered in the negative and was invited inside to turn on the temple’s lights. I’m sorry to inform you that you violated Sabbath, because there was some serious electricity going off between us. Think I make a good Shabbos goy? Get to know me as a Shabbos boy-toy.
Union Square, woman-for-man
Last Monday—or maybe Thursday?—afternoon, on 14th Street in Union Square. I was on the sidewalk approaching Broadway from the west, trapped in a horde of pedestrians 20 people thick. You, with your brownish hair and glasses (?), were in the backseat of a taxi headed downtown. I could be wrong, but it seemed like you were frustrated in your efforts to turn off the little screen in the back of the cab. You should just see me in a taxi, because that’s totally me, too! “There goes the love of my life,” I thought. “Knowing my luck, driving straight to his death.”
Patsy’s Pizzeria, man-for-woman
You were dining Wednesday night at an adjoining table. We only had a brief moment to speak: As you may recall, my wife and daughter had gone to the bathroom, leaving me with just a few minutes to lecture you about how radiant you looked. Further hindering our flirtation was the presence of your husband—who, if you remember, reacted to my praise with a somewhat shocking level of hostility—plus your own kids, who began to cry (rather histrionically, if I may say so) as the confrontation escalated. Through it all, I felt our bond grow deeper; I know you feel the same way. Apologies for loudly declaiming that you and your family were deranged mental lunatics, recently escaped from the asylum and pestering me, once my wife and daughter returned from the restroom. I owe you our first bouquet of apology flowers.