It was my third date with Dave and I wasn’t looking forward to it much.

In fact I was a little hesitant about the whole thing, the guy obviously liked me far more than I liked him and this made me uncomfortable. There were things about him that bugged me; he read comic books (oh I’m sorry, graphic novels), loved horror films so much that his home was decorated to honor them, he was at his own admission a pothead, and he was not what I considered attractive at all.

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I’ve ditched out of work early to meet The Brit at South Street Seaport.

Plans with him are always last minute, which I find frustrating.
He’s the type to wake at 2pm, send word to me, and we meet up ninety minutes later. I don’t like being the type to jump when he commands, but I also want to spend time with him as often as possible. We always meet in the city, always halfway between my home in Brooklyn and his in Queens.

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I walked nearly four blocks through center city Philadelphia, still in search for a garbage can to ditch my gum in.

I’d always thought of Philly as a smaller, cleaner version of New York and I didn’t want to litter. How is it possible for there to be no public garbage cans between Rittenhouse Square and City Hall, I thought. Especially considering the relative cleanliness of the city. Each time I visited I wondered “why don’t I live here?“ There was something charming, nearly adorable about Philly that I wanted to pocket upon my exit and plant like a seed when I returned home to New York. Though I could hear my mother whining in my head that Philly’s murder rate was “just terrible“.

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