How to Hit On Someone As You Hold the Elevator Open for Him

Upon leaving a party, I make a last-ditch effort to flirt ...


So, the other night, my darling Duval threw one of the most gorgeous parties I've ever been to, in her exquisite Chinatown penthouse apartment. I put on a summer dress*--it has halter top, a tie around the waist, and a bright pattern of over-sized paislies and flowers in turquoise, chartreuse and brown--and topped it off with my coveted green headband. Then I jumped into my brown heels, threw the baby watermelon I was bringing into my basket, and biked on over there ...

The view from the enormous balcony at Duval's was more than enough to have made the journey worthwhile: I could see the Williamsburg Bridge, all lit up for the occasion; and the Chrysler Building, its golden tip glowing in the distance; and, down below on the street, the medley of green and red street lights, which seemed to have come out for the party themselves. Even better, lots of my friends were at the party--most of the women in my writing group, including the writer Phoebe Damrosch; my fashion designer friend, Eugenia Kim; and one of my very best pals, a.k.a. Daisy Milliner. There were also a few guys who are connected to the literary journal N+1; the editor of another lit mag, Open City; and one former Gawker scribe.

When I walked in (carrying my melon-baby), Daisy exclaimed "Look at you! You're adorable! Why don't you wear sundresses more often?"

(Yes, I think I will be renewing Daisy's friendship contract when it comes up for consideration later this year--and maybe I'll even throw in a hefty bonus.)

Plus, there was a FIRE-EATER who performed on the roof-top at midnight, swallowing flames and then blowing them out of her mouth, with the full moon as her back-drop!

A fire-eater!

But, as so often happens here in New York, it seemed I knew every eligible bachelor at the party (which was populated mainly by writers and editors) ... as well as the NOT-so-eligible bachelors. So the moment was not ripe for flirtation.

Around midnight, my lids began to droop with sleepiness, so I took off, riding the elevator down with a woman--we'll call her Adrianna Spetlova--who writes for a groovy NYC magazine that shall remain nameless*. The first thing she said to me when the elevator door closed was: "I just can't handle these literary guys any more. Ugh! What am I doing with my life? I'm writing pieces I barely care about ... and sleeping with a guy who barely cares about me!"

I tried to remind her that her career was going well. I also urged her to dump the scallywag.

Then, the elevator opened unto the narrow white corridor that leads to the front door of the building ... and down at the other end of the gleaming hallway was a cute gentleman in jeans and a pin-striped suit jacket.


Since I knew the elevator would take forever if I let it go and someone up top called it before Mr. Suit-Jacket Stranger got in, I decided to hold it open for him--yes, yes, I'm just a total selfless Good Samaritan like that. I swear. No ulterior motive. None at all.

Nevertheless, as he approached us, I began speaking in tongues or something. "Look," I said. "I'm really sorry about this, but I'm so pooped that I had to leave the party before I had a chance to meet anyone new, so I'm going to flirt with you right now. Okay?"

He frowned and smiled, like he wasn't quite sure what to make of me. "Uh ... sure."

"Fantastic." He was wearing a t-shirt with a drum on it, so I said, "I suppose you march to the beat of a different drummer, don't you?"

He was grinning more broadly by then. "I suppose I do."

"Excellent. I knew there was something about you I liked. All right, so, why you don't tell me your email address so I can get out of here?"

He carefully spelled it out for me, then asked for mine. Then he climbed into the elevator, and as Adrianna and I glided off, we gave each other double thumbs-up.

Tune in Monday to find out what happened next!

And have a great weekend, guys.



*I'm sure "Adrianna" wouldn't want me talking about her personal life, so I'm keeping her identity secret.


PS: New GRIZZLY BEAR album is, like, my favorite thing in the world at the moment. I can't stop listening. "Two Weeks" might be my favorite song: lush, orchestral, dreamy, angelic ... hazy and yet exuberant. And I'm about to tear into the novel LOWBOY ... once I finish the very old collection of short stories, WHITE NIGHTS, by Dostoevsky.