Dirty Little Secrets

Right before The Ex and I got engaged I met this guy at a coffee shop near my place. He was wearing flip-flops, board shorts, a beat-up, light-blue Stussy tee. His face donned a scruffy four-o-clock shadow, and so did his head. If he hadn’t been reading the Wall Street Journal, I would’ve thought he was a beach bum; if he hadn’t noticed I was wearing a vintage Gaultier blousy halter top, I would have never started talking to him.

His name was Christian Knight and he knew about a lot more than just fashion. He was passionate about world politics, understood economics like an investment banker, and observed people for hobby—and his job. We spent two hours that afternoon in the coffee shop debating the possible life stories of the myriad of people walking by. The business man in the dark blue frumpled suit—unhappily married and recently laid off. The young girl, barely turned 16—just lost her virginity. The homeless-looking man—really an undercover cop.

“What about me?” I finally asked. Christian looked at me pensively, arms crossed, one arm scratching his chin, head cocked slightly to the right.

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