Monday, October 30, 2006

Modern Love asks: where can a 50-year-old woman fall in love with a 25-year-old, bad-boy surfer… without ever having sex?

Why, Philadelphia, of course.
He had loomed about on the edge of my life since I moved from New York to Philadelphia three years earlier. I saw him daily at the neighborhood bakery, where he loaded boxes of muffins for morning deliveries, often returning for his surfboard around noon before heading off to the Jersey Shore. He was a risk taker, always sporting a bruise or a bandage, and I was there the day after his bad skateboarding accident, reaching out to touch his purple eyelids and broken nose.
It thrilled me. I was out of my pajamas and into a short skirt before you could say “cradle robber” (as I told my friends). But it was more than that; we were changing.

We sat outside at Brasserie Perrier — a fancy place I had never been but where he seemed quite comfortable. It was a warm night. A pack of women in their 20s twittered by, and I watched him watch them as they passed. I waited. He swiveled his head back toward me and said, “Don’t pocketless jeans just get on your nerves?”
Like, totally.

Is Rittenhouse Row starting to remind anyone else of the Upper East Side [NY Times]

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