Emily, Meet Emily

When I want to, I can really turn on the chutzpah. Occasionally, it’s fruitful, like the times I’ve gotten random people to pay my bus fare or give me rides (urban hitchhiking: not impossible!). Sometimes it doesn’t lead to anything, but is a good exercise in assertiveness and polite subversion of  social norms.  For instance, the time when I asked a random dude with a briefcase and a laptop for a job. I thought he looked “professional,” and that there was a chance, however slim, that he might need help with qualitative research or content writing or something I could do. He didn’t, but nor did he recoil or scoff. So that was something.

Earlier today, my willingness to push the boundaries of convention was rewarded in a way so delightfully bizarre that to call it serendipitous seems like an understatement.

I’d gone to Fremont Coffee Company with Ayla to do some writing en plein air. On the way, I’d gone foraging, and discovered three gorgeous bouquets of flowers – an early birthday gift from a  favorite local dumpsters.

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These came from the trash. True story.

As I settled into my spot on the patio, a young woman near me commented on the flowers. I told her I got them out of a dumpster, and we started talking. I got a good feeling from her, and decided to follow a wild impulse: I told her that I was looking for a roommate. As it turned out, so was she. I went in to get a coffee, and when I returned, I introduced myself.

Her name was Emily, too.

I told her that I’m a writer, and that I work at a restaurant. She replied that she, also, is a writer who works at a restaurant. I asked her where she works; she told me Vios, in Ravenna. I work at Vios’ other location, on Capitol Hill.

Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat.

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Emily.
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