The guy stoops down to take a kiss away from me and I am the opposite of receptive. I take a step backward. If I were a cat, my ears would be flat against my head. Tail swishing, my pupils would be fully dilated and my claws ready to draw blood. But I’m not a cat, and all I have is inferior human body language with which to indicate my point.
He takes another step toward me. This time I don’t move. I don’t like the proximity but I’m not about to wind up pressed against a store front on Queen Street. I pocket my hands deep inside my jacket and turn a half-turn to scan for the streetcar that I fairly desperately want to appear. I don’t know what else to do but literally give him my shoulder. I’ve completely clammed up.
"Where is the streetcar?" I implore the Universe, loudly. I’m happy I have somewhere else to go.
"Your eyes are so beautiful."
Here come the lines. Too late, too late, buddy. You’re too obvious now. "Sure. They’re blue."
"Did they just change colour?"
"I don’t know. I guess. They do that in different light."
"What? I can’t stop thinking about kissing you."
I flex my claws a little, inside my pockets. A badass-looking chick turns the corner, stops and waits for the streetcar near us. I attempt a grateful smile in her direction but whatever is stretched across my face feels unidentifiable.
He follows me onto the streetcar for a few stops before giving up. Three reasonably fun hours I was likely to repeat, revoked in less than 10 minutes.