I stand in the packed train elevator, concentrating on my breathing so I don’t suffer a panic attack. Inhale and exhale. Inhale and exhale. Reach into my left coat pocket. Its warm, cloaked in fur lining, but alas my addiction to my iPhone coerces my left hand to grab the phone and retreat it from the soothing heat. That’s when I notice her watching me. Her wide round eyes peer from underneath the curls of hair that surround her pretty, caramel face. I smile at this sweet little girl. She holds my gaze. Blinks repeatedly before smirking.
I gather she must be 4 or 5 years old. The same age as my boyfriends daughter whom I will meet when I return from my mini vacation in Charlotte, NC. I’m unsure of what to expect from our introduction.
I’ve never met the child of any of my significant others, not like there have been many children or lovers. I do know it will be nothing like meeting a man for the first time where you can just “be yourself” or meeting a Dominican mother who can be seduced by a fast Dominican tongue, a kiss on the cheek, and a friendly, respectful demeanor. No, it won’t be as easy as charming her with my pepa™ talk.
Instead, I’m thinking of buying her a gift. Not the girl on the train or the one girl who followed me in a supermarket as if I were her long lost mother (that was a little creepy), but my boyfriends little girl. He tells me she likes Hello Kitty. She’s a girly girl, the only girl, a daddy’s girl who love and celas her father.
The only solace I have is that girls love me. Not lesbian women. Not rickety, arthritis prone viejitas. Girls. Here’s to hoping his little girl is not the exception.