Senior year of college, I lived with a princess. She was one of a total of four suitemates, and she was one of those who spent a lot of her parents’ money on Charles David while her boyfriend piled up (my) dirty dishes like he lived there. The worst of her habits were not appreciated by all, but the rest of us were out and about enough that for the most part, we lived and let live. All of us were usually out on the weekends. Sometimes we were at the same parties with each other, but not too often.

One particular Friday night, she invited each of us to her birthday dinner. As luck would have it, I was the only suitemate who could make it, so I had the pleasure of riding with her family and friends. It wasn’t a completely out-of-place experience, as her friends were over at our pad pretty much every weekend – Just, usually, I was out already doing something else.

Anyway, she chose this Asian fusion place on the uber-trendy strip of spending, Santana Row. I believe I was being picked up after dinner to go out on a more normal (for me) clubbing night, so I wore some easy dinner-to-dancing wear. Nine West leather boots and a Nine West leather jacket topped off whatever I was wearing.

We were waiting at the bar because no reservations were made for our 14-or-so person party, so I was making nice with the friends and family who had arrived. It was already busy with people taking advantage of Sino‘s signature cocktails and generally pretty clientele.

At one point, my suitemate’s older brother offered me a drink (He wasn’t hitting on me; he’s actually just a gentleman.), but having just met him that night I felt too awkward to be asking for a $10 drink. While he went to the bar to pick up drinks for those who took him up on his offers, I sat by myself, comfortably people watching and eavesdropping on typical bar waiting room conversation.

I was angled facing the rest of my group when some strange Italian man sidled in beside me. I say Italian because everything he said dripped with a heavy Italian accent and he had some wavy medium-length hair slicked with glossy product. It looked better, or at least more carefully cared for, than mine.

I gave him a curt smile.
I scooted away.

“Do you own a motorcycle?” Oh God, this one wants to talk.

In my well-practiced deadpan voice, I said, “No, but they are pretty cool.” I threw the response in his direction, but then quickly turned my face back to my fellow dinner party.

“You look like you own a motorcycle,” he said, gesturing at my feet and leather jacket.

“Nope, I don’t.” I said, deadpan.

Slight pause.

“Motorcycles are dangerous.”

“Lots of things are dangerous.” Still deadpan.

“Love is dangerous.” OMG, did you really just say that??

And at this point, I just got up to join my suitemate’s brother at the bar. “I think I need that drink now.”

This memory brought to you by suave hair product-wearing Italian men everywhere. Rawr!

And Hells yes there is plenty more where this came from – It’s Mayka’s weekly Tales from the Club!