Bonding over burritos

Last night I had a very New York "Am I in a movie?" moment. I went to a pre-din happy hour with one of my co-workers, got (swiftly) drunk on $5 hurricanes and promptly headed to Chipotle for an ENORMOUS burrito. Yeah, all caps. I mean, have you ever had a Chipotle burrito? Seriously.

As I was waiting in line for the hyper-speed burrito artists to stuff my tortilla with meat, rice, cheese, salsa and guac, I looked to my right at the guy in line behind me. Hm, cute. He looked at me. I smiled. He smiled. I had ordered steak, and was a little scared of my decision. Steak is a commitment. I noticed he had ordered chicken. He looked over at my burrito-in-progress.

"Steak. Nice. I almost ordered steak. Went with chicken."
"Yeah, I know. I'm a little scared. Steak is serious."

He laughed. So cute. I was drunk enough to seriously (albeit briefly) consider asking his name. But I chickened out, and then it was time to pay, and goddamnit they move so fast at Chipotle!, and here's my card, "here's your receipt ma'am," and now I'm at my table and where did he go?, turned my head, he's walking past, out the door. Burrito to go.



















I will probs never see this mystery man again. Such is life in New York. But for approximately two to three minutes, I was just drunk and hungry and attracted enough to think I had found my soulmate, right there behind the vats of steaming "gourmet" Tex-Mex.

I love this city.