I gave myself a few fleeting passes in front of the mirror, catching my reflection, sighing at what I saw. Fitting black leather gloves tightly to my hands, I headed out.
There, is something to be said about autumn in New York: just enough bite in the air to catch a breath and plenty of fallen amber leaves to crunch beneath your first steps in this season’s novel footwear.
It was a ‘Mad-Men’ mood as I nuzzled the fur of my vintage overcoat’s collar. Severe in fit, it was appropriate for the day: I was going to a funeral.
“And so attractive, too,” Luke whispered. I let the remark fly, while trying to duck familiar faces.
“Luke, you have no idea who he was,” I spat back.
“Still handsome, though. What, a dead guy can’t be good looking?” he asked.
He was sincere. Considering that to be quite a scary thought, I took a second look at the new, now dearly departed and shook the image from my brain.
“A damned fine editor,” I mouthed, staring blankly. A somber procession, one by one, passed the casket, some kneeling in prayer and others bidding peace and goodbye. “That is the third time that guy looked at you.
”Hold still,” Luke gestured. We both watched a rather attractive, dark-haired guy turn his head in my direction. Making his way back to his seat, he smiled.
“Told you, checking you out hardcore.”
“And at a dead guy’s funeral” Luke gasped, shaking his head in disdain.
“A second ago you were ready to jump his bones!” I whispered, nodding my head forward at the pulpit…..
Watching Luke speed off in a taxi, I waved goodbye.
“Your friend, Luke Yates,” a voice asked. That voice was attached to the same set of glancing eyes.
“Alive and kicking,” I nearly gulped on my words. His hand stretched for mine as we made our casual introductions.
“It’s alright, you're a writer, you’re supposed to be witty,” he chuckled.
“So you know enough about me. I'm a writer and you apparently know Luke.”
“Yates and I both work for the same advertisers. Our division just merged.with Sin City Vodka, and you being a writer, that is pretty simple.”
Underneath his arm was a folded copy of Grin Magazine. GuyFriday, my column, ran weekly in it.
I learned that we both worked, at some point, for the late editor and knew a lot of the same people.
“Would GuyFriday like a cup of Joe-y?”
Sin City Vodka is hosting the bash on Halloween. The one I'm attending.
“I have a boyfriend!” I sputtered out, with such force and convulsion, that he jumped back.
“It‘s a cup of coffee, not a shotgun wedding in Vegas. Plus,” he added, “you’re shivering.”
Realizing how foolish I sounded, all I could do was smile. He flagged down a taxi and let me slide in first, as he closed the door behind us.
