My Greek boyfriend
Smooth is an adjective you get to use when you've been on a plane.
Other things people will accept "smooth" for include: whiskey, a certain kind of older man, a certain kind of fuckery. So I told the man driving his yellow taxi from JFK to Manhattan that my flight was smooth.
Where from? he asked, and when I told him London, I could hear the smile in his voice when he asked – as if these were the only two options on the table – Arsenal or Chelsea?
Neither. Hammers till I die.
WEST HAM? He exclaims like I've said I like skinning cats in the wee hours. Well done on who you just beat last night. Who was it again?
As always, when men tacitly ask me for a weird proof of my credentials, I bristle. Um, I dunno, I say. Actually, I was too busy packing to be watching the team I purport to love with my very life.
The truth is I support West Ham the same way I am writing a TV pilot screenplay – it's a thing I know I do, but I can produce little to no real evidence of the fact.
I tell him I'm a writer when he asks about my job. It's softer and more romantic than saying "journalist" which implies I eat babies' hearts for breakfast, with a few doddery granny chasers. Ah, I like writers. Come sit up front, let's talk! All taxi drivers like writers, he confides – but I'll only tell you a few things, because the rest are my secrets.
"A life without secrets is like food without salt," he opines like he is the Godfather, handing out deep wisdom. I am thinking, $59 for this taxi ride and I'm getting free tidbits about life-salt? Yes, please.
Later, he mutters something in Greek, and then asks if I speak Greek. No, but what did you just say?
I'm not telling you, he says, laughing, because I like you!
If this guy were my uncle, I would've loved him as a kid and grown weary of him as a teen. As a thirtysomething whose uncles are far away, I am charmed by him. You been to New York before? Yes, I tell him. Has he been to London? Alas, no – just passed through Heathrow. Ah, you should, I say uselessly. People always say that about their hometowns. "You ever been to Basildon? Oh, you should, mate. It's great!"
Have you ever had a Greek boyfriend, my driver asks me, like we're best pals in the 90s, chatting over Cosmopolitans. No, but I have Greek-Cypriot friends. No good, his little head shakes transmits. He confirms it when he speaks.
No, he says. That just means you've never had the best.
He is proud of all the Greek men I have sadly not sampled to date. He's going to Greece this summer, he tells me, happily. Three months under the Greek sun. I should come visit.
I tell him, I will.
This is my first night in New York, where I now live.