You spot him from across the block and, somehow, just know: This isn't going to end well. Your hot neighbor Rudi (who you've never spoken to despite bumping into each other almost every day for the past six months) is leaving the bodega wearing nothing but grey sweatpants and a denim jacket, egg and cheese bagel hot in hand. Meanwhile, you're preparing to cross the street in flip flops and pajamas, arms full with two bags of recyclables bursting at the seams. (Why Anders and Amber can't be bothered to take out the trash or recycling, and why your landlord still hasn't gotten bins for your building despite promising to address the issue eight months ago when y'all moved in, you may never know for sure.) In any event, you're left crossing Lexington Ave. swimming in the smell of stale beer and the half dozen rancid Chobani containers that Amber forgot in the back of the fridge, when you catch a whiff of something ripe. It's the unmistakable scent of hot grease and cured meats drifting to you downwind from the bodega, but mixed with a startlingly dark, strong, and woody mansculine musk. Your whole body shudders — that must be Rudi. Time seems to slow as you huff the breeze and take in his full splendor: luscious locks swept back just so; jawline sharp enough to cut through steel and/or the set of leather handcuffs you have tucked away in the back of your bottom dresser drawer; and that furry tangle of temptation running down his abdomen, begging you to follow along to whatever wonders lie below. Oh yes. Oh god. Oh no— you're yanked from fantasy by the sharp squeal of bike tires and sudden thud of a cyclist crashing into you head-on. How long had you been standing in the middle of the intersection staring at Rudi? Plastic bottles and takeout containers tumble to the ground. Glass shatters on the pavement. The byciclist quickly remounts and flees the scene, leaving you disoriented and alone, on hands and knees on Lexington and 1st, surrounded by you, Anders, and Amber's bountiful debris. You look up seeking perhaps a sympathetic smile from Rudi, but he's already strutting off into the sunrise, probably pretending none of this ever even happened.
Yours in thirst,
Lincoln (@marytodd_)
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