Every fragment of past experience has provided me barricades of protection from everyone. Trying to protect myself from this crazy little thing called love is beginning to tell me that it’s fucking useless. If I tell you that love didn’t fuck me up, I’d be lying. And I hate lying. And I hate liars. One of the reasons that I’m still standing and still living here in New York City is because this is the only place in the planet that I truly love. From the rows of brownstone apartments in Brooklyn to the bars and restaurants of Lower Manhattan. I love this stinking city from the abyss of my impatient heart.

Last Sunday morning, I woke up next to Franziska, the German tourist I met outside of a bar in East Village. I slowly got out of her bed and pulled up my pants. Then she woke up and stared at me like a wolf.

“A goodbye after a one night fuck would be nice you know..” She said.
“Oh hi, I didn’t mean to sneak out like this..” I replied in a apologetic way.
“It’s okay Lorenzo, I’m not like most girls who will bitch about this just because you fucked off like a runaway lover.”

I realized something. The way she used her words and constructed her sentences, I immediately knew that she’s a fucking writer like me. I am so fucked. I promised myself over and over again not to hook up with another writer. Oh fuck, what have I done?!

“I see, I get your point. So what do you do for a living?”
“I’m kind of a writer..”

I grinned a little bit. A part of me wanted to jump out of her window due to the fact that I just fucked a writer like myself. I don’t want to end up like one of her fictional creatures on a “Sex and the City” column, German edition.

“What about you? What do you do?”
“I’m a- wri-ter.”
“Sounds great, why is it so hard for you to admit that you have the talent to compose words and sentences?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t normally talk after a one night stand and I would prefer to leave it this way.”

I put back my shirt on and tried to walk away because I didn’t feel comfortable talking to her.

“Are you scared?”

I stopped walking. That question alone felt like she hit me on the neck with a baseball bat. I looked back at her with a serious and slightly offended face.

“Why the fuck would I be scared?”
“Because you’re trying to avoid a conversation with me. I’m sorry, have I offended you?”
“No, of course not..”
“Okay, I will stop talking. Why don’t we exchange numbers and see how it goes? I dare you!”

I ended up exchanging numbers with Franziska. She also told me that she’s actually here in New York for a six month internship at HBO. That morning, I met up with Candice and Megan at some brunch place with no name in Alphabet City. I told them about Franziska and also the fact that I’m uncomfortable hooking up with another writer.

“I say, delete her number and move on!” Candice said.
“No, I say give it a chance and take her out on a real date.” Megan said.

Candice looked at Megan like she was retarded.

“Megan, Lorenzo is a writer, he can’t be having sex with another writer!” She exclaimed.
“Why not?!” Megan asked.
“Because it’s against the laws of fiction!” I shouted.

Megan looked at me and seemed to be sad.

“Aren’t you supposed to be glad that you guys have something in common? She politely asked me.
“No not really. I don’t want to end up in her novel, poetry, or any of the shit that she writes.”

Candice picks up her glass of mimosa and gestures to the server to refill it.

“You know what you should do? Patent and Copyright your name and personality. That way if she ever writes a character that signifies you, you can collect royalties! Where’s my drink?!”
“Don’t give her that kind of advice Candice! Lorenzo, why don’t you ask her out for a real date and see if there’s something.” Megan justified.
“If there’s what?!” I retorted.
“There’s chemistry or some weird alchemy! Megan replied.
“Megan dear, Lorenzo cannot fuck another writer! Candice shouted.

I finished my glass of mimosa and decided to leave.

“OK, I think I’m done here. I will go for a walk in East Village.”

Candice and Megan both offered to walk with me but I declined. I decided to stroll alone. For some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about Franziska. I remember the cologne that she wore when I was making love to her, CHANEL 5, the only reason I know the brand was because I saw two bottles of it in her bathroom, her deep green eyes, her soft, wavy dark hair, and of course her . I checked my BLackBerry to see if I managed to get her number before I left her hotel room and surprisingly I did. I texted her and asked her to have dinner with me at MARRI VANNA Russian restaurant in the Gramercy District. This may sound cliché but asking her out made me feel nervous like a fucking teenager asking someone to a dance prom.

TO BE CONTINUED….