Picked up Sophie Crumb's (daughter of R.) first issue of Belly Button Comix at St. Mark's Comics last week and was delighted to see that the apple falls far enough from the tree as to be accessible to a woman like me (who can't get into her daddy's hypersexualized female forms), but close enough to have talent and a singular voice. There's one piece in particular that appealed to me tremendously - "The Post Card Seller," a true story of Sophie's obsession with a young Frenchman who worked a corner near her house. (Selling post cards, not his body.) Without spoiling the ending I'll just say the tale involves Sophie and the young man romancing each other through notes left near his stand. She is afraid to reveal herself throughout most of the piece because she doesn't want to ruin the romance of it all, but also because she is worried he will not like her or be attracted to her.

This tale resonates strongly in this internet era, even though it had nothing to do with hiding behind technology. I know that I have held off on meeting people (though rarely, because it is all balls and liquor over in these parts) I meet online for these exact reasons, and I have many friends who feel the same way. But when I really put some thought into it, it also reminded me of another personal story, one that involved more instant gratification, followed by later disappointment.

When I first moved to New York I spent a lot of time in the cafes on Avenue A, reading, writing in my journal, and sucking in what I thought was some sort of cultural intelligentsia vibe. (I realize now mostly it's just NYU students down there, but give a girl a break.) Also I found it easier to be silent on the weekends, because it seemed like all I did was talk, talk, talk all week long. I was meeting new people constantly through work or during happy hours, and I tend to grow tired of telling people the same stories about myself all the time. ("Just moved here from Seattle, used to live in DC, went to school in Baltimore, live in the East Village, yea I have no idea what I'm doing with my life but your life sure sounds interesting.") It was getting to the point where I didn't feel like talking at all, unless absolutely required.

So one crisp fall day, as I sat in Alt.Coffee, burned out from learning how to act like I liked working in advertising all week long, high on coffee, I burned my pen into the paper. I sat on a faded couch, the cushions sagging deep under me. After an hour of intense thought, I looked up and noticed a man sitting on the other end of the couch, more boyish than manly, tall legs, tall torso, but a sweet young face that didn't need a shave more than few times a week. His hair was dark, and so were his eyes. His jaw was strong, and I could imagine what he would look like in ten years, once the rest of his face grew older to match that strength. I looked at his shoes, black boots, and his pants, dress pants, frayed around the edges. I was mesmerized.

He turned and saw me looking and I looked back at my journal, flushed. I looked back and he smiled at me. I started writing about him, about the exact moment I was having, and when I was done, I closed the book, pen inside of it. And then I noticed he had moved down on the couch, one cushion over, one cushion closer to me.

I opened my notebook again and wrote, "And he just moved next to me." I flipped the page, thought for a moment, and then wrote, "I don't feel like talking out loud." Then I handed him the book.

He read it and smiled, motioned to my pen, raised his eyebrows, and I handed it to him.

"It's ok," he wrote, and handed it back to me.

"Can we just talk like this?" I wrote.

He nodded, and then we were off.

We spent the next hour or so handing my journal back and forth. We talked about nonsensical things, nothing related to who we really were. Swirling colors, the sounds around us, the music on the stereo, the shoes of the guy sitting at the table in front of us. At the end of the hour we finally shared our names, and then I asked if he wanted to go sit in Tompkins Square Park. I was nervous. So was he. But it was time to leave the safety of the cafe and the journal.

In the park he told me he was Dutch, was staying here for a year, and that he played the saxophone at Cafe Pick Me Up on Sundays. "You should come see me play sometime," he said. I told him I worked in an office, and I felt ridiculous for saying it. We both talked about being poor in New York, though I had a feeling he was worse off than I was. He seemed distant after a bit. We kissed for a moment, and then he said he had to leave. He invited me again to come see him play. I watched him walk off, shrugging in his lanky frame. I wondered how it felt to be in his skin.

I avoided the cafes for a while after that. I don't know if it was deliberate - I know I didn't feel uncomfortable with anything had happened - or that I decided I needed to start talking to people again. About a month later I decided to go to Cafe Pick Me Up on a Sunday, curious to see what he sounded like, to see what he looked like in broad daylight.

When I walked in the band was on a break, so I buried myself in a corner, in a book, in a newspaper, in a journal, in a coffee, in my head. It's so easy to get stuck in there. It still is. It always will be.

And then he walked up to a table, up front, and put down a coffee. He slid next to a woman, and then he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She was older than him, older than I, and heavily made-up, though still pretty. She wore gold around her neck, several huge chains, and gold around her wrists, and gold in her ears. She was tiny. Her hair was dyed jet black. I guessed her to be in her late thirties. He pulled her closer, whispered in her ear. She laughed out loud. I wondered: was she his prize or was he hers?

I told Mac this story and he laughed at me and asked me if it was my M.O., picking up guys that way. Maybe it is. Is anything wrong with picking up someone with the written word?

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