My hometown is about 15 minutes outside New York City, so my friends and I often visit to see movies, shows, go shopping, or eat. Early this morning, around 8 o'clock, my friends and I left to purchase tickets to an upcoming show for the band Alice in Chains. We decided to spend the early part of the day in Times Square, and then slowly made our way over to Soho before parting ways. I have different route to take home, and I also want to grab something light to eat, since it's only about 11:30 a.m., so I find a small cozy bakery not too far from the train station. It's a warm summer morning, and the sun seems to be especially bright today, lighting up the sidewalks, bringing people out of their homes to enjoy the break of the weather. There is an outdoor patio area, lined with cobblestones and decorative adornments of floral arrangements, and I can tell this is a posh and likely expensive place to eat.
I fit in somewhat well: I'm wearing a white t shirt by Express, dark Lucky Brand jeans, and white sneakers by Steve Madden -- the perfect balance of casual wear befitting of any of the yuppies roaming these streets. Several people are seated outside on patio tables, which are supported by thin, black wiry legs, and a flat glossy tabletop with a different mosaic pattern on each; most are sipping cups of coffee, reading magazines, and shouting into their phones or text messaging. I make my way through the center of the terrace, which has a flattened path leading to the doorway, and inside, which I notice is empty, save for two customers online and another small group preparing tea or coffee, observe large glass casings housing an array of scones, croissants, bagels, muffins, and other assorted breakfast snacks. I settle on a hazelnut coffee, which I plan on loading with sugar and milk, and an apple turnover that is about the diameter of my fist and half as fat. The total: $8, a nice hole in my wallet for a small breakfast. I had the woman begin the counter a twenty, take my change and head outside with a white paper bag advertising the bakery's title in a yellow stamp on the side.
Heading down the paved flattened path, I notice an attractive girl, sitting alone, idly sipping a large cup of coffee, whilst reading a book (I can't make out the title from the distance I'm at) and enjoying the remainder of what looks like a cinnamon Danish. Her curly blonde hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she wears a skimpy white linen dress along her long, lean body, with low, open-toe white heels. I can't quite make out her features, which are hidden behind a large pair of Chenel sunglasses, but one can easily see she's very pretty. I'm single, and though she looks as though she may be older than me, possibly 21, or 22 compared to my 20 years, I decide to hit on her anyway, keeping my brother Jonathan's advice fresh in my head ("A girl can be 15 and look 22, or be just the opposite, so be careful you fucking idiot," he had said to me just before I left for college). As I approach, she looks up from her book, smiling graciously as I near her table (a good start, so I'm dimly aware that she's at least somewhat interested), and I return with the same gesture.
"Hi," she says as I step up the table.
"Hi, how are you?" I ask tentatively. "I'm Marc."
"Nice to meet you," she says. There's a brief pause.
"...And your name is?" I ask.
She pauses before answering, and the smile one her face slants. "You don't know me?" she asks, her expression changes, concerned, her eyebrows furrowed, as though she's trying to solve a difficult algebraic equation. The novel she is reading is entitled 'Weekend in Paris' by Robyn Sisman, and I stared at the pastel cover art as I try and organize my thoughts. Do I know this person? Does she know my family? My mind is blank, and I look to her for some sort of indication.
"I'm sorry...I, I don't...Have we met before?" I stammer. Shit, I think to myself, this is not going well. There is no shot you're getting laid, let alone a number, you fucking retard.
"You genuinely don't know who I am?" she asks, her face straight, neither smiling nor frowning, neither angry nor happy, just a plaintive stare from behind the black, reflective surface of her sunglasses.
"I guess I'm supposed to. I'm not trying to offend you or anything, but I really do not recognize you."
"I write music, if that helps," and she smiles wryly. I focus on her face for a minute, and after a brief consideration, an "ahh" moment washes over me, and I realize who it is.
"Oh! Oh...Shit! I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to be arrogant or anything, I just really had no clue who you were. I'm, not...I guess I'm not used to seeing you with sunglasses," I say. In front of me, on a patio outside a small Soho bakery is Taylor Swift. I laugh good-naturedly, pushing my long brown hair out of my face and over my ear. The bangs extend the middle of my cheek, parted at the left with the larger portion right-bound, and the back runs roughly midway down my neck, neatly combed, but subtly disheveled - my attempt to look like a rock-star-slash-model. Maybe my look works. In the brief instant separating my realization and apology, I note my appearance, making sure everything is in order so I don't look messy. After deciding I look fine, I continue the conversation.
"You know who I am now?" she asks, an uncomfortable smile spread across her face.
"I'm sorry, you just look different in person, and you're incognito sort of, with those sunglasses. All celebrities wear them, it's always the big sunglasses, but now I know why," I say and she laughs. "It's partially because I'm ignorant, but have a lot of people approached you?"
"No, not really. Not too many people have noticed. Are you fan? You don't really look it."
"I'm kind of a fan..." I say. She's pretty, and her music isn't bad, but this is coming from someone who is in a metal band. I listen to pop when I'm in the car with girls and have no choice, but other than that, I have virtually no exposure to it. But I'm not fawning over her, and girls hate it when a guy isn't in the palm of their hands; they have an overwhelming need for attention, especially girls this attractive, and when a guy seems unimpressed, she will go out of her way to grab his attention and gain his interest and approval.
"Admittedly, I listen to a lot of rock and metal. But I actually know how to play the chords to 'Love Story', so at least I can say that."
Taylor laughs, indicating the chair to her right, before saying, "Sit. Do you play guitar?"
"I actually play drums. I'm in a band so...I like, steal my friend's guitar during practice, and maybe mess around with it a little." I pause. "And in the process I learned 'Love Story'," I say, and we both laugh. "As far as being a fan, I'll admit I don't really listen to your music, but um...I actually have a story for you."
