It’s Not Easy Seein’ Green

The man in the bright green track jacket halted for the flashing orange hand kitty-corner from us at 24th and Hennepin. He shifted uncomfortably under our steady, power-in-numbers appraising stares, risking the occasional glance back only to make eye contact and look away again. “Yep,” we agreed. Approved. Dark, tousled, slightly grown out hair that framed his sharp eyes; narrow, slightly scrawny but not emaciated build; sharper, clean shaven jaw - standard indie rock hot. “Maybe he’s the new love of my life,” I said to her as we crossed the street, turning my head as far as it would go to follow him across the street and finding his eyes meeting mine again. “Maybe…” Reluctant to risk losing him, I ran down Dupont in an effort to intercept him again just one more time. If that eye contact wasn’t an accident, THIS would prove it. Her laughter faded behind me as she walked leisurely to meet me at the corner. “I don’t see him. Either he walks REALLY slow, or he went inside somewhere.” We strolled back to 24th. “Damn. That could have been it, you know.” “Well, if it was meant to be, you’ll see him again eventually.” “Oh, alright.”

When we got to the Spyhouse, a green track jacket caught my eye as the wearer headed toward the ex-smoking section. I let out an involuntary gasp. “You’ll never guess who just walked in here.” “Who?” “Green track jacket.” She laughed. “That’s funny.” “Is it funny? Or is it FATE?” Not to be taken lightly. “I’m going to investigate the literature rack again,” I announced. “I think you should.” I sprung up from the booth and walked purposefully toward the magazines I’d already seen, picked up a Rake, and flipped through it casually for a few seconds before turning my head toward the man who would, perhaps mere days or weeks from now, laugh with me about how fate worked to bring us together.

But I guess a lot of indie rock boys are wearing green track jackets these days.