friday night.

I just bought a banana from a random place in Times Square in order to gain access to their bathroom at 2:30 in the morning.

And nope, I didn’t even eat the banana.

But it was eighty-six cents well spent, I can tell you that.

I just took a cab home because I was too tired of waiting for an A train that never came. The cab driver missed my exit. “Uh-oh, I miss exit! This BIG mistake!” is what he said.

And then we got caught in some kind of traffic jam that involved loud Dominican music and a guy who tried to convince my driver to back all the way up the exit the wrong way. Luckily, the cabbie wasn’t buying it. He’s from Afghanistan and he’s not about to be anyone’s fool.

I just met a guy from a small country wedged between Russia and Poland. It cannot actually be this, but it sure sounded like he said that he’s from Spalenka. Or maybe Palenta, but I am pretty sure that is cheese. “How do you like America?” I asked him. “I like New York, but I do not know about America. This–” and he gestured all around him–”This is not America. Nobody even speaks English here in New York,” he explains.

“I guess so,” I agreed.

“Do you speak Spanglish?” he asked.

Thinking he meant Spanish, I said, “No, sadly I don’t speak Spanish.”

“But SPANGLISH–” he repeated, “Do you speak that?”

And then I laughed and regrettably informed him that I don’t speak Spanglish either.

Anyway, he started teaching me some Russian. Privet. That means hello. He told me that he’d be happy to tutor me, like, on the regular. I laughed it off. And then he asked me for my number.

“I’m sorry, I don’t give out my number.”

I got to use the line that my friend Leao has taught me.

But then Misha gave me his number and said he is greatly looking forward to my call. Oh, Misha. You will meet a wonderful girl who will call you someday, but she is not me. Though, I would actually like to learn Russian. And Misha told me that I don’t look Russian at all. “You look very much American,” is what he said, actually.

I guess that makes sense.

“I am not gonna be your girlfriend or your hook-up,” is what I told someone else today. “I am unavailable,” I stated.

And the guy says this is okay. An attractive girl as a friend is new for him, he says, but he’s willing to give it a try.

“But, Cisne,” my friend Leao tells me, “Saying you’re unavailable just makes a guy want to try harder, you know. They see it as a challenge.” And he shakes his head while I say that I am just trying to be upfront and honest.

“When are you going to learn that nobody wants to talk about your book?” he asks me, which is now code for: guys just want one thing.

“But maybe this one actually does want to “talk about my book”,” I maintain. “I mean–maybe.”

But Leao looks at me like I am telling him that maybe every last dream will come true. Like I am naive, but he is done explaining for now.

“You’re kinda like Sarah Connor from Terminator,” the guy who has promised to be happy being my platonic friend tells me. “Do you know who that is?”

“The girl who is ripped and skinny?” I ask.

“Yeah, that’s kind of like you.”

I guess there are worse things.

What a night; what a night.