I was reading Anton Chekov’s A Lady’s Story, minding my own business, when a tall guy with a limp sat across me. I was somewhat aware of his presence, and often watched him walk away from his table then back again. It must be out of curiosity, as he seemed to me, a bit interesting. After half an hour, he leaned towards my table and started talking to me. I had to take my earphones off of my ears to hear him say: do you model? I half-chuckled, taken aback with what I deem to be a cheesy pick-up line. No. He asked if I could model for his company, and I said I wasn’t interested as I would be leaving for Milton the week after. Milton, Canada? There’s nothing there but snow. Haven’t I heard these lines before? For the last months, I’ve been listening to most of my friends tell me how much Canada sucks. I don’t remember much of how the conversation went. At some point, he joined me on my table. He told me about his company, which true enough was based in California (or just true enough, real). He told me how he’d gotten a limp, just a few weeks back due to a car accident. And that he was kicked out of UP. That he didn’t mind a woman who carry with her sharp objects, whether it be mind or tongue. After a while, he eventually left my table and went back to his, telling me to go back to my reading. Perhaps, I wasn’t such a good chatterbox.
I’m easily one of the most cautious persons you’ll ever meet. I’ve taken the no-talking-to-strangers rule by heart, and even as an adult. Talk to my ear in a crowded bar and I’d probably call the police on you. And so, it struck me quite odd that I didn’t find this man creepy. In fact, on the contrary, he felt kind of harmless. It’s a feeling so bizarre, to trust strangers with your time. I did this once, I think. Although I don’t like to remember it so often.