“Well – and don’t take this the wrong way – but when I see a girl who’s as beautiful as
you are here in New York, I think to myself one of two things: She’s either an actress, or
a model.”
At this she smiled.
“And when I see a girl as beautiful as you out eating alone on a Friday night, reading a
book, I think this is a girl who’s so committed to her craft, that she sacrifices her social
life to master it. THEREFOR, you may not be famous now, but I imagine you will be
eventually with that kind of dedication. So I figured I’d get the autograph now while I
still could.”
She laughed at this.
“Am I right?” I asked.
“Kind-of,” she said. “I just moved out here from Florida and don’t really know anyone.
But you were right about one thing. I am a model.”
I snapped my fingers. “I knew it! What kind of modeling do you do? Please don’t say
hand modeling.”
She gave me a weird look. “Why? What’s wrong with hand modeling?”
“Oh, nothing. Why? Do you want to be the world’s top hand model or something?”
She laughed. “No, I do a lot of high fashion.”
“Oh cool, so you’re planning to kill Tyra Banks as we speak?”
“Oh, you know it!” she said, laughing.
“See? You’re already planning to be a famous assassin,” I said. “So how about that
autograph?”
“Okay,” she said finally. She wrote her name on the piece of paper. I looked at it.
“Oh, my, God...” I said.
“What?” she asked.
“Please tell me your name isn’t really Christie?”
“Why?”
“This is so funny. The name of my first girlfriend EVER was Christie!”
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