Monday. That was the day Raymundo confirmed for our date on Tuesday. We first spoke on Thursday, the day after I broke up with my boyfriend which was a Wednesday. And now I feel like I’m singing Rebecca Black’s “Friday.”
I was pleased that he called. My iPhone rang it’s lovely tune while I was at work. This time he called in the early evening. This time I was excited, nervous even, to confirm a date for the first time with a white man, and a cute one at that. I hung up the phone and walked back into my office. Tomorrow at 7:30pm, I thought as a kid whined about school teachers, I would move on from Luke, my ex-boyfriend. A pang of sadness hit as quickly and unexpectedly as a jelly fish strikes when we’re enjoying the freshness of the ocean. I quickly brushed it aside. We’re over, I said to myself. He hasn’t even called, I thought. He didn’t fight for me, I concluded. Besides, I promised myself to do things differently. No more pining. No more regretting. Time to move on to something…someone…new.
The next morning was Tuesday, or Date With A White Boy Day as I secretly named it. As the clock ticked, my excitement grew. This is new, this is fresh…this could be…it?! Suddenly, my mind transported back to 2009. I sat in a wooden chair, directly in front the bald and eccentric Raymond Perro, gay psychic extraordinaire from the West Village. He swiveled in his chair, slightly to the left, slightly to the right, as he absorbed the energy of the people in my photos and read my aura.
“He’s leaving his girlfriend, but not now,” Raymond whispered while looking at a photo of me and Mr. G, as if telling me a dirty secret. Almost everyone knew I had kissed Mr. G, well, everyone but his live in girlfriend of 6 years.
“He’s not good for you, honey,” the psychic continued, a higher pitch in his voice now. “Sure, you have great chemistry, but he’s a cheater and always will be!” I remained stoic, swallowing the lump that had formed in my throat. I felt Mr. G was the one. I’ve never felt an emotional connection with just one kiss. I literally melted in his mouth, and I wanted more, I confessed to Raymond.
“Oh, honey! You’ll feel this again! You’re going to get engaged to a fabulous man who’s going to be yours and only yours,” Raymond predicted, filled with glee. He inched closer to me and spilled the rest of my fortune.
“At 32, you will be engaged to a white man whose name begins with the letter ‘R’….Rick…Ray…” I sat at the edge of my seat, waiting for a name that began with ‘M’ for Mr. G’s first name.
“Raymundo” Raymond blared.
“Raymundo?” I said with disgust. “And wait…did you just say he was…white?” I questioned, a frown forming on my face.
“Yup, he’s white,” Raymond repeated with a smile.
I questioned him again, specifically asking if he was Caucasian and not a light skin Latino. The bald, gay psychic confirmed my future husband was indeed Caucasian. He was also in finance and either lived or worked in New Jersey.
Present moment and it hits me minutes before our first date. I was going on a date with my future husband? If I believed in fortune tellers, particularly Raymond Perro, that would seem to be the case. He’s been right in the past, I thought while walking on Broadway toward Altus Cafe. And Mr. G has yet to leave his girlfriend, just like he said, I rationalized, convincing myself Raymond was to be believed. While still in my thoughts, I received a text.
“I’ll be there by 7:30pm,” Raymundo said. He was punctual, dependable. Nothing like Luke or Mr. G or most of the men I’ve dated or loved. I smiled, secretly hoping that Raymundo – white boy who works in finance in New Jersey – would be a potential something. What that something was, I did not know. One thing was for sure. Raymundo was something, someone…new.