24 August 2007

Contact

Last night in Kansas City, basking in the humid heat, booted feet up on the chain link security fence in front of me, contemplating the stage and the first half of the show D. & I had just sung and danced our way through, I was approached by a man in a black baseball cap.

"I saw you come in to the premium parking lot," he said, and nodded his head smiling.

My mouth opened to respond, but no words came out. What possible response was there?

"I'm sorry?" I said, trying to make some sense of his comment.

He leaned forward and said a little more loudly in case I was deaf from the earlier proceedings, "I saw you come in to the premium parking lot."

It didn't make any more sense the second time. I think I just stared at him, completely perplexed. He walked away (looking sad, D. told me).

After contemplating this a few more moments, I turned to D. and asked, "Why would someone come up and say that? What could he have possibly expected me to say?"

D. laughed. "He was hitting on you."

"WHAT? No, he wasn't."

"Yeah. He was hitting on you."

I huffed back down into my seat, disbelieving and completely appalled at the thought.

By the end of the evening, D. had termed me "oblivious." I won't recount what else she said, funny as some of it was, but apparently, I was highly entertaining from the moment I set foot in the premium parking lot.

Go listen to some music: "Contact" from the album Reggatta de Blanc by The Police.