Shani Silver

I heard my neighbor fall in love through thin walls. I heard her try on half her closet before their first date, heard several pep talks from girlfriends via FaceTime. I heard him pick her up that evening, rare, for New York. I heard him leave the morning after the second date. Not so rare for New York. I heard a lot more the night before that too but I’ll keep that to myself because I’m a lady.

Stereotype suggests I’m about to order a pink drink at a bar and complain about men while wearing heels and carrying a designer bag I can’t afford. I’m not. I’m not going to complain, moan, or hate. I carry a backpack and it’s within my budget. I prefer a good ankle boot. I just want to talk about New York. I want to talk about what happens here.

I believe in ghosts. Spirits, phantoms, apparitions, reality television filmed in haunted shoelace factories, all of it. If a ghost challenged me to a hand of Texas Hold ’Em, I’d ante up. I believe things aren’t always what they seem, weird moments happen, and sometimes nothing can be explained.

I’m always on time. Punctuality is a big thing with me. I don’t believe in being late, in wasting someone else’s time by making them wait for me. Their time is important, too. So when I walked into the date six minutes late I felt terrible. That feeling was fleeting.

A word on dress code. I’ve never held a man’s clothing against him. I understand that fashion isn’t everyone’s thing. I don’t expect, at our first meeting, to be dazzled by a man’s particular choice of outfit, because I don’t think it’s a fair thing to judge someone on. Further, I don’t see how a man’s fashion sense is going to be any real help in a crisis. Perfectly cuffed jeans tell me nothing of your spider killing skills.