In the hot end-days of summer, I went to a friend’s barbecue in Cobble Hill. She lived two blocks off the beaten Smith Street track of punk-chic clothing boutiques, trendy taco joints and charming old-school edifices, like the semi-dilapidated cinema I cried in once while watching UP.

I was feeling over life, and over myself. I’d been working late every night, attempting to set a new standard of diligence that would maybe inspire my boss to maybe fight for the raise I definitely, desperately needed. I wasn’t sleeping well, and I couldn’t drag myself to the gym. Ever.

This exhaustion and malaise was all my fault, but I couldn’t see any way out of it. It was only getting worse. I couldn’t stand in line at Starbucks without gripping my fists, almost losing my shit at every person standing between me and my morning latte. I needed a change of pace.

So, I had hauled myself out of bed on that Sunday afternoon. As I walked over to the barbecue, I cursed the missed opportunity to toss, turn and try to sleep the day away, but I was also pleased with myself for going out in sunlight. I was ready for any distraction from my day-to-day.

The grass in my friend’s backyard was tall and dry, itchy on my legs as I stood among her two dozen friends. Flies buzzed everywhere, but it was too humid to swat at them, except when they settled en masse on the picnic table of food. Still, the urban grassland ambiance beat the gray refrigerated cubicle where I spent most of my waking hours. I felt warm, slick with sweat, and it enlivened me a little. My sense of crushing lethargy was lifting.

I heard him before I saw him, focused as I was on downing scoopfuls of guacamole.

He was spouting commentary on Marx: “Communism has never truly failed, because it was never truly tried.”

I glanced sidelong his direction.

He was skinny but muscular, wearing torn up jeans, a white T-shirt and a grimy baseball cap. Short waves of curly dark hair sprouted around his face. He had green eyes, and he was looking at me. He was handsome.

I focused, as if transfixed, on the guac, but I’d taken in the scene in full.

He sat surrounded by four younger guys on folding chairs, all of them dressed in khaki shorts and chiming in eagerly to debate. I gathered that these freshly-pressed youths were Harvard soon-to-be seniors, hanging out post-summer-internship in the city. They were ecstatic to be talking politics with a real live Brooklyn hipster. They were anxious to impress him.

But he was looking at me. I could feel it. I had the flash thought of pulling off his cap, climbing on top of the folding chair, and kissing him, fiercely, to shut him up, to bring him down. He’s not talking to them, he’s talking to me, I realized.

I slowly picked at the table fixings, cultivating the suspense before I made a move. I was wearing my light pink, ultra-mini paisley J. Crew shorts, a beige designer tank top with no bra, and a short brimmed sun cap, my long blonde hair falling free beneath it. I was the Ex-Suburban Princess to his Outer-Borough Communist. Nice.

I turned around and pulled up the chair across from him. Our eyes met, I crossed my legs, and the heads of all the guys turned to me. “You say we have Capitalism to blame for our economic collapse,” I said, “but why is Europe faring no better? The more socialist the country, the more it’s falling apart.”

I feigned deep concern for Greece, with the heaviest sigh, bringing up interest rates and the necessary austerity measures. He argued to each point, but it was foreplay. Every time he championed the French, I felt the insane desire to move closer to him. To touch him. For him to touch me. And shut the fuck up. The Harvard boys were buzzing in the background like the flies.

Half an hour later, the barbecue was ending, rabid mosquitoes having descended on us in the growing evening. He came over and sat next to me, putting his phone on his lap. Wordlessly, I took it, added my name and number and pressed Call. He took my buzzing phone from my purse and input his name. Handing it back to me, our fingers touching, he said “I’m DJ-ing in the East Village later if you want to hang out.”

“I’ll be out here ’til late,” I answered, “But I can come find you. Text me.” We smiled.

When the DJ texted, I was standing on a smutty rooftop in my one-piece party dress, pink silk on top and a cascade of short black ruffles beneath, the hemline as high up on my legs as possible. The Empire State Building rose in the distance through the dark Brooklyn smog, like some kind of omen, and I lingered, impatient for my night to begin.

I had forgone bed again in order to go to this house party before seeing the DJ. By 11 P.M., the party had run out of everything but the cheapest of cheap whiskey and the tiny bit of red wine I was nursing in a glass jar I held with both hands. I was surrounded by overgrown boys sporting scraggly mustaches. They lingered nearby, but clearly would never initiate contact with me, or any woman. This was not my scene, but waiting on a rooftop was better than waiting at home.

I was delighted at the thought of the coming text. It had been so long since I’d felt a fun, carefree vibe with anyone. Let alone a dude. I felt like Cinderella, venturing out from the dustbin to the Ball, only to find that the Prince, far from being a bland Ken-doll dream boat, was down and sexy. I endured the ambient man-boys, knowing the DJ would write me soon and I could leave.

He texted at the stroke of midnight.

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