A good man is hard to pick

There is a man in my building who rides a custom-built bicycle. I’d guess we’re the same age. He’s personable and cute — like a thicker John Mayer — and, judging on the bike commute, I’d say he’s eco-friendly (a big plus). We’ve spoken twice, both times in the elevator.

On the first ride, going down, he was suited up for his ride to work. We chatted for a few minutes on the stoop before he whizzed off down the street and I walked my separate way.

A week later, we bumped into one another again, this time going up. He was flushed from his ride but still affable, and we exchanged pleasantries as the elevator rose.

“I’m Matt,” he said before stepping off at the fifth floor.

I balanced my laundry basket on my hip and stuck out my hand. A layer of fabric from his biking glove separated our palms, but our fingers — his long, nimble fingers — touched. I would think of this later.

Two nights later. I stood waiting for the elevator, casually looking around the hallway and out the window as the carriage made its slow rise. My eyes fell on a window on the fifth floor, directly across the courtyard. It was late evening, dark had fallen, and the light from the room across the way illuminated the man sitting in front of the window. Matt. He had his shirt off — I saw a few love handles — and his bike leaned against the wall in the background.

It’s rare that we have an unfiltered look into another person’s private space. Even in this age of tell-all memoirs and paparazzi photo shoots, many of us still have a private — sometimes very private — side hidden from view. And in our most private moments, moments to which even our closest loved ones rarely have access, we do things we wouldn’t want the world to see. This is why people have window blinds. And why Matt should use his.

As I watched, my new friend inserted one of his slender, dexterous fingers into his right nostril. He worked it around then withdrew the finger. I stared. He inspected the finger. I wanted to turn away but couldn’t and instead watched as Matt inserted the same finger into his mouth. I could hear the elevator make its slow progress upward. It stopped below. Across the way, Matt repeated the dig-and-eat maneuver.

And this is when things got weird. Not that nose-picking and boogereating isn’t weird, but on some level, I think I could excuse it. I watched Matt hold one nostril closed and blow his

nose onto the back of his hand. And lick his hand. The way people lick yogurt lids. I blinked, disbelieving. In case I missed it, Matt gave two more blow-andlicks before the elevator arrived.

When I finally stepped on, I was stuck between horror and laughter. It’s unbelievable, this thing I saw. But I witnessed it. The next time someone asks me why a good man is hard to find, I’ll think of Matt, with his cute face and long fingers, and his private, picking ways. 

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