I had just crossed lazily through the intersection toward Wells Fargo Center, gently swinging my bag in the late afternoon heat. I had also decided that day to make friends with the hips I had developed over the past six months and lean into them … literally.
I saw him, 30-ish, scruffy, with a dirty T-shirt and a backward hat, leaning against the building. Our city has its contingent of panhandlers. They add a little paprika to our lives and I didn’t pay him any mind — until he called out to me as I passed by him.
“What?!” I asked, incredulously while laughing, stopped in my tracks.
‘I asked if you were married,” he answered with a crooked smile.
“Yes,” I replied and started to walk away. He wasn’t done, though. “Can I get your number and text you?” he yelled at me.
I turned around. “HAPPILY married!” I shot back and spun around on my heel and walked off, laughing.
