This past week has been absolute madness; busy beyond words. The weekend feels almost surreal. My mind’s been focused completely on work, on my writing and on everything other than romance, but as we all know, scheduling romance is utterly futile.
So on Tuesday after a particularly full day at work, I hopped the subway to this hotel in Times Square (ugh, as a newly established NYC snob, I hate Times Square) and strolled into the fancy lounge/lobby to wait for this R&B singer that I was interviewing for a magazine freelance gig. Let’s call him L.
He was only a half-hour late, so when he arrived and we finally sat back on the white leather couches to get started, I wasn’t too disgruntled, but I did look kind of frazzled. My hair had started out bone straight and then transformed into a nest of frizzy 5-year-old curls in the light of the soft drizzle of the day. I had unapologetically traded stilettos for some rain boots, too. Hey, I was there strictly for journalistic purposes, not to mack it to some lanky B-list singer.
To my surprise, he was pretty charming. I really shouldn't have been surprised though since R&B guys usually are disarmingly smooth. He gave me a great interview, complete with complaints about how the music that young people are exposed to these days is too sexed up. There’s nothing that grabs my attention more than a positive role model/a dude with morals.
After about an hour, I had wrapped it up and was getting up to leave when…
“Hey, I’m having fun…do you want to chill for a bit?” L asked me, as his publicist shot him a look.
“I’m leaving,” she said, looking at her watch. It was nearing 8:30 and the rain was starting to come down harder against the window next to us. “But you guys have fun!”
L raised an eyebrow at me. He was cute. There was something about his humble demeanor, his southern drawl and those innocent eyes. I also liked the fact that he put his Blackberry away in his bag and stayed focused on me. I don’t care of you’re freakin’ Oprah, when you’re doing the interview thing or even at dinner, the phone should be out of sight.
“Just for a bit, I know you haven’t eaten yet…” he pushed.
I smiled. Food, the way to my heart. “Yea, I can stay for a little bit. I want to hear your new album anyway,” I said.
“Ooooh you’re going to love it,” he grinned, motioned for the waiter and slid next to me on the couch, just close enough so that we could share iPod buds, but not still not invading my kindergarten personal space rule. “You said you liked that old soul and blues stuff right? Check out this track.”
The first song he played was amazing. I nodded to the beat-heavy track, impressed that he’s stepped out of his comfort zone on it.
So we hung out for a bit, I drank only water (sticking to my professionalism bit for fear that I would flirt back with this guy) and we talked about everything from our families to broadening our choices in music. It was that conversation one would hope to have on a really great date.