I peeled into the parking lot like a bat out of hell, slipped into the perfect parking spot, pulled off my helmet, and flipped my hair back, exactly how I imagined I’d do when I was still daydreaming about being a badass.
At least, that’s how it felt.
I was on a quick booze run before hanging out with a total dreamboat and I was jazzed. Everything was great. I felt positively sparkling.
As I walked in through the sliding doors (pretending they slid open in anticipation of my fabulousness), a white man appeared along side me magically.
"Woman on a motorcycle. Hot."
"Yup." I took it in stride. Can’t nobody ruin my high.
Then I looked at the man.
Maybe 5’4”, wire-rimmed oval glasses, yarmulke, white shirt, black pants, scraggly beard. Oh yeah. Definitely Jewish. Definitely definitely definitely Jewish. Couldn’t be more Jewish.
"I used to ride."
"Really?!" Well, now I had to know more.
"Yes, but I stopped after an accident."
"I was in an accident, too," I confessed in hushed tones. "Hit and run," I added. Because I’m a badass.
"Oy. Well. I wasn’t hit, but I stopped short and still went flying. That was it for me."
We entered the produce section and continued to chat. I sincerely wish I could remember the flow of our conversation. It was hilarious to me. I couldn’t stop smiling. What a weird coming together of two totally different people. I was disarmed.
In the course of chatting, I recall that he was completely enmeshed in his community and religion but that he had dropped out of rabbinical studies and had gotten a law degree.
"What are you shopping for tonight?" He asked.
"Booze. For friends." Friend. One super hot friend who I was determined to make all mine that night.
"Ah. I’m not much of a drinker." Pity. It’s my favorite vice.
"I do like plum wine, though," he mused.
"Japanese plum wine?" I’ve had it. "It’s very sweet…." Blech.
"Yes. But I prefer pot."
"Yes." He said earnestly. "Constantly."
We talked a bit more and he showed more interest.
"Are you Jewish?" He asked me.
"Nope." Ha. I’m just about as Aryan as they come (don’t take that comment seriously, please).
"But you know about Judaism?"
"A little. Speaking of which, is it okay for you to be talking to a shiksa?"
His eyes widened and he smiled.
"Actually, yes, it’s perfect!" He was far too eager to be breaking rules. "I also don’t believe in God," he explained, reading my mind.
"Well, I’ve heard that, in Judaism, it’s important to question things…."
"Do you believe in God?"
"I, uh… I believe… in something?" I fumbled. "I think there something… bigger than us out there, but… " Think, girl, think! "I think we’re looking to know more about the universe and… I think we’re using science to get there…?"
I have never, ever, ever answered his question. Not when asked, and not in even asking myself. Never. I have always refused. I have refused to even think of an answer when asked. I never ever discuss religion or politics. That’s the rule.
But. There it was.
He seemed to approve.
Then he asked for my number.