Please press play:
My fantasy first date with Steve Buscemi would go a lil sumpin’ like dis:
I’d walk down King Street West with my music blasting through my headphones and eyes glued to my BlackBerry; my shoulder would be bumped by a passerby causing my phone to tumble to the concrete. Surprised by the jarring body contact, I would spin around with my fists beat-ready to only be taken aback by the glory that is Steve Buscemi. He would stutter, apologize and pick up my phone, examining it for damage as he places it back in my red-mittened hands. When he finally stops stammering and stares into my eyes, he would say, “We must dine tonight, for it is my only night in your city. 8pm.” We would exchange numbers as he would obviously not have a BBM pin. I’d run home and remove a garment bag from the hidden depths of my closet to reveal the only outfit appropriate for my evening. This frock is the only option. Why, you ask? Because I’m going on a date with Steve Motha-F*ckin’ Buscemi! *single blink*
Bloggers note: I searched online for Steve’s favourite food (http://www.exposix.com/answers/What-is-Steve-Buscemi-s-favorite-food.html) but as of 2:27PM on January 10th, there were no replies yet. So just go with this…
Steve would call, not text, and suggest we meet at <fill in the blank> restaurant. I would arrive before him so I’d always remember the moment he walked in, searched and found me seated at our reserved table. We’d dine on <insert favourite food here>. His sexy, baggy eyes would meet mine over/under the candlelight/fluorescent bulbs and it would be wonderfully/frighteningly hot. His lips would purse in an attempt to conceal his Swedish built teeth but I’d tentatively touch his face and softly say, “Don’t hide that smile from me, Stevie B.” We’d talk and laugh into the wee hours and wonder how our paths never crossed during his many visits to Toronto. I won’t know how to answer. Instead, I’d giggle and shrug but my body language would scream, “NOW IS OURS FOREVER!”
I’d have work in the morning and he’d have to fly back to the U.S. He’d hail a cab and run to the driver’s side to say something I couldn’t hear. I would open the backdoor and get inside disappointed our time together has ended. He’d knock on my window and motion for to lower it. He’d reach in and grab my hand for mere seconds. He’d tell me it was a pleasure and he’s “taken care” of my drive home. Before I could protest he’d back away from the car and lift his right arm 90 degrees – not quite a wave but very much a goodbye. I wouldn’t look back as the cab pulls away from the curb. I’d just smile to myself and enjoy the ride home.