I had a real “New York Moment” earlier tonight. I met with a friend to discuss some possible ways to start reaching out to climate change groups about Hot Mess. Got there early, and snagged a table next to an older man who was, shall we say, not clad in the latest Spring fashions. Whatever. It’s a public space, it was a table, I’m not bothered. Sat for a while, working on a short story idea, until my friend arrived.
At this point, my friend and I start talking about the calendar of releases I’ve got slated for the upcoming year, and ways to get news out about both Hot Mess and the as-yet-untitled-webseries I’m working on with this guy, as well as Millennial Ex, currently set to appear as part of a one-act play program on gay marriage and marriage equality in Scotland later this year. We chat, we laugh, we drink our drinks.
And suddenly I see it. Out of the corner of my eye. My friend has her back to the eccentrically-clad man at the next table; she can’t see what he’s doing. But he’s got his hand down the front of his jeans. Which are, for some reason, unzipped.