I’m walking home when a man, who’s graying and handsome, stops me. “Excuse me,” he says. “You’re gorgeous.
” I’m not hallucinating. The fairy tale has come true; my prince has arrived. It’s the giddy 12-year-old in me who says thank you.
It’s also the current me, with all the weight of my 49 years, who gives him my number and tells him to text me by Wednesday so we can have dinner on Friday. Then I tell everyone: my work buddies, the baker at La Monarca Bakery, the barista at the Starbucks on Occidental, the fruit vendor on the corner of Virgil and West 3rd, and even the Koreatown ahjussi who preps my lunchtime Brussels sprouts. By Wednesday, as I’m waiting in line at Apollonia’s Pizzeria, I realize Friday dinner is unlikely.
But around 8 p.m. that night, I get a text.
Does dinner at Sushi Gen sound good? Yes. Yes? Yes! We sit atop the planters outside the restaurant while we wait for a table. The conversation is stilted, so I ask him to tell me about his life and I tell him about my job.
I love my work, but I’m worried. My boss just left the company, and what is an executive assistant without an executive to assist? Prince Charming snorts and says I’m lucky. He’s looking for a full-time job.
I’m too startled by his snort to respond. He says that he’s sure I’m great at my job. His best friend’s wife does something similar.
She’s a shrew. He can tell I’m not. I think about what it is to be a shrew and what goes into making a woman shrew.
