Him: Hey. I know you.
Me: Hey. Do you?
Him: Yeah I think so.
Me: From where?
Him: You’re the guy online.
Me: Oh shit. Yeah. I guess I am. Hi.
Him: Hi.
Me: What’s your name?
Him: Kelley.
Me: Oh wow. I really like that name for a guy.
Him: Thanks. You’re…?
Me: Michael. It’s nice to meet you.
Him: You too. (pause) Oh my God. Do you have pie?
Me: What?
Him: Did you bring pie?
Me: To a Brooklyn gay bar? No. I didn’t.
Him: Well. You’re supposed to be the one who has all the pie, aren’t you, mister?
Me: I suppose I am.
Him: Well see? You should have brought some.
Me: I’m hoarding it.
Him: You are?
Me: Yeah. I’m hoarding all the pie and nobody can have any except people I like.
Him: Aw! That’s not fair.
Me: Also I tried bringing pie here before but it made my coat pockets sticky.
Him: Really?
Me: No. But you’re cute.
Him: Really? So are you.
Me: Thanks. So are you hungry? Wanna get some cheap Mexican food?
Him: Right now?
Me: Yeah, or later. It’s always there, on Grand and Graham.
Him: You know what? I better say no. No offense.
Me: I’m… What? I’m not offended.
Him: Yeah but I better say no.
Me: Why?
Him: I’m just more of a prude than you are.
Me: So?
Him: So I’d better not accept a date invitation from you.
Me: ‘Cause you’re a prude?
Him: Yeah. I’m a super prude. I’d never have a website where I do what you do. Post revealing photographs like that.
Me: They’re not that revealing, are they?
Him: Don’t you think they’re slightly dirty?
Me: Not really. I feel like I’ve seen worse in fashion magazines.
Him: Maybe. But there’s this context. It’s jarring.
Me: That’s on purpose.
Him: Well, mission accomplished.
Me: So, okay. So, don’t start a website where you post photos and stories like I do. What’s that got to do with having some cheap Mexican food with me?
Him: I just think I probably wouldn’t be the best person for you, is all…
Me: Well that’s why people go on dates. To find out if that’s true or not. And to have fun along the way.
Him: Thanks for asking. I’m going to decline.
Me: Okay. I respect that.
Him: Partially, too, I don’t want to get written about.
Me: Oh, I’m probably going to do that.
Him: No! Why??
Me: Because it’s a slow news week, cutie.
Him: Stop.
Me: I don’t know why. ‘Cause that’s what I do. I probably would write about you either way, but now that you’ve implied I’m too slutty to qualify for a date, I’m definitely going to.
Him: Oh jeez. That’s not what I meant.
Me: I know. But I have to capitalize on what’s going on in front of me – as a writer.
Him: I’m not an extrovert. I don’t want to be part of your thing. I like it, but I don’t want to be part of it. Why isn’t that okay?
Me: That’s fine. But I might write about it.
Him: Why?
Me: Because I write about conversations I have.
Him: I know, but just don’t write about me.
Me: You’re trying to censor my writing, and you just met me, Kelley.
Him: That’s not true.
Me: What else would you call limiting what I can write about? I’m kidding. I don’t think you’re really trying to censor me. Except for the censorship part.
Him: Okay, fine. Please don’t write about me?
Me: Sure. On one condition.
Him: What?
Me: Come have cheap Mexican food with me. Sit with me and chat for half an hour and I promise I won’t write about you, ever. You don’t have to ever talk to me again.
Him: No. I already said no.
Me: Okay. There it is then.
Him: But, don’t write about me.
Me: Eh. We’ll see…
PIEFOLK 