You Gave Me Your Number

As I was crossing Essex, I saw you see me and pretend to stand against a wall. You started walking with me as I walked up Rivington. You asked where I lived, and I said Brooklyn. You made a noise like you were a horrified child and asked how that was. I told you I'd been murdered once and mugged a couple times, but it wasn't so bad. You thought I was pretty tough, and as I turned to go onto Ludlow, I was afraid you were going to accompany me to the bar. You said, "can we talk later?" And as I admitted that I was trying to break a habit of giving out completely truthful contact information to strangers, you thought it was my way of saying I can only correspond by email. This was not true. I didn't want to communicate in any type of way, but I did give you props for being ballsy. When I wouldn't give you my number, you asked if you could give me yours. This sounded like the best win/win of the day. You opened up a whole new world for me, one in which, I don't have to not remember who I gave my number to the next morning. If you see this, you can't ever contact me because you don't know how, and I have you to thank.