i ordered chinese food for dinner – mu shu pork, but that’s not the story, here.
my food arrived earlier than anticipated, already a pleasant surprise.
the delivery guy was a handsome hipster.
dark green plaid shirt, black capris that fit perfectly, and black, sleek pumas.
i gaped, unabashed.
‘you . . . are dressed very well for a delivery guy. not what i expected.’
he smiles and sheepishly admits, while holding the receipt i must sign,
‘i don’t have a pen with me.’
giddy with the opportunity to impress my delivery-hipster (delipster?) guy, i say,
‘i’m sure i have a pen in the house.’
‘idiot. idiot. he thinks you’re stupid. of course you have a pen, joel. you can save this. you can fix this.’
i get a pen and return to the door.
‘my preconceived schema of delivery drivers is currently crumbling to the floor.’
much better. i’m regaining my footing.
‘it’s always a good day for a paradigmatic shift.’
i mutely sign the receipt, stunned.
i think i’m in love.
i didn’t get his number or his name.
but i will never forget those windswept bangs.