Andy

As I walked around my food co-op in Williamsburg searching for my favorite organic granola to no avail, a man caught my eye from down the aisle of locally grown vegetables. His crumpled thrift store tee looked unwashed in a way that made me begin to sweat through my Tom's of Maine natural deodorant and my ironic onesie. Our eyes locked as he lifted an organic frozen meal, his lanky arms and tousled unwashed hair made Radiohead start echoing through my mind. I gave him a look that said that I had no interest in him, he returned it twice as hard, harder than the thing creating an outline in his tight worn-in chords. I could see the ironic moustache tattoo on his finger, we matched! I raised mine in a nonchalant salute, he returned it, I knew I had him. From there it was a short ride on the handlebars of his fixed gear bike back to his cramped Bushwick studio, I had been hoping he was a squatter but this was nearly as good. There was a stained mattress on the floor and Passion Pit echoed from the speakers in the corner of the one room he shared with his five roommates. I knew they must share this one mattress, nothing could've made me hotter. We were standing so close that my breath was fogging his thick-rimmed glasses. I heard a crunch beneath my Metropolis boot and looked down to see a crushed Arrested Development DVD, "Sorry" I muttered momentarily losing my cool, "Don't worry about it, I don't care about material things," he purred. He couldn't have been more perfect