Brady

Two nights ago I was riding the 6-train home from a debaucherous evening at Katwalk. It was Lauren's b'day extravaganza and I'd conveniently forgotten dinner. After our share of Mr. Big shots and Carrie Cosmos, I dragged my carcass and Karen to the subway. As I headed uptown she waved to me from the downtown platform...

On the train, I encountered a charming black man with his nose in what looked like a philosophical read. In my cocktail haze, I pointed to the letters on his page and muttered, "Does that say Prague?"
He looked up at me puzzled and slowly said, "It says Progressivo. It's Italian."
To which I responded, "Oh! I just spent the weekend in Prague. Guess it's still on my brain." Apologetic smile in check.

We got talking. His name is Brady. He's 6'5". Played basketball at Brown. Reads Italian, obviously. He hopped off at 86th and since I had to run to the bank, I did too--but when we parted ways underground he didn't ask for my number: his parting words to me were, "Guess, I'll be seeing you on the train, Mili!"

Ah Brady, I sure hope I'll see you again.