Last Friday, as my boyfriend, David, and I walked from Cucina de Pesce in the East Village to meet up with some friends at Swift, I noticed some adorable dogs out on a walk. One was an English bulldog, and the other was a French bulldog pup. It was too much. I almost cried.
“Oh, look at those guys,” I whined, tapping David on the shoulder. As he turned, saying something like “Awwwww, puppiieeessss!” I looked up at the owner. It was John Legend.
“David, that’s John Legend,” I said out of the corner of my mouth, hoping Johnny wouldn’t hear my excitement. He didn’t believe me at first, but after he tore his eyes away from the pups he confirmed.
“Oh, yeah. That’s definitely John Legend.”
David tried to get his attention by loudly stating how cute the dogs were several times and in various ways. John Legend couldn’t have cared less. One very smart girl stood close enough that the French b-dog pup began to lick her toes. Johnny looked down and laughed. David and I were so jealous. I could have slapped her.
Suddenly, a wave of courage came over me, and David and I followed John Legend for about a block as he walked up East 4th Street. I had devised a plan.
“Where is that ice cream place?” I asked far louder than necessary. I looked at David and winked.
“Yeah,” he said just as loudly, but visibly confused. “Where?”
“Are y’all looking for some sweet ice cream?” John Legend asked.
“Yes!” we said, almost in unison and with a questionable level of enthusiasm.
“Well, I’ve got some delicious ice cream at my place,” he said. “And look, we’re right here.” He pointed up to a high-rise building made entirely of gold and silk. “Come on.”
I pushed David out of the way and ran behind John Legend as he walked through the front door, greeting the doorman with a sing-songy “Good Evening, Mr. Doorman.”
John and I stepped onto the elevator, but David came running up, just as the doors were closing (CAT scan results reveal that he only fractured his radius). I rolled my eyes. There were 18 numbered buttons, and then one with John Legend’s face on it. He pushed that one, obviously. Oddly, the elevator didn’t seem to move. We were just…there.
The doors opened directly to his apartment, which was what one might call “chic” or perhaps “swanky.” Smooth jazz was playing (was it always playing?), there were several stainless steel surfaces, and it smelled like ginger peach, if that’s even a thing.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” he said, popping open a bottle of Moscato.
“Oh no,” I said. “We’re just here for the ice cream.”
“I know,” he replied, pouring the Moscato into the dog bowls. “Now, where were we?”
He opened the freezer and pulled out an entire shelf of gourmet ice creams. I fainted. When I came to, I was sitting on a white leather sofa, with a bowl cookies and cream and a dog on my lap. I looked at David, who was eating a black cherry ice cream and letting the dog lick it off his spoon. When I looked at him with my David! face, he just shrugged and let the dog keep licking.
As I enjoyed my ice cream (it was like each cookie was handmade with the finest dark chocolate, just for me!), John played his baby grand and sang”Ordinary People.” This is the life, I thought as the French bulldog hopped from my lap to get more ice cream from the kitchen. He carried in a pint of oatmeal cookie chunk–which is my jam–on a tray strapped to his back, then stumbled away (puppies really can’t handle a nice rosé).
I only finished half of the container, because everything in moderation. I gave David a tap on the shoulder (the dog was now holding the spoon, and David was licking the ice cream).
“What now?” I whispered, not wanting to interrupt the end of the song where John goes, take it slo-o-o-ow, sl-o-o-ow.
“We do whatever Johnny says.” I nodded in agreement. My mother had told me this ever since I was a little girl, along with Y.O.L.O. We waited for Johnny to say something, but he didn’t.
“Well?” I said, after what seemed like minutes of silence.
“Well?” came a voice from the corner. We all turned around. It was Chrissy Teigen, John’s model girlfriend.
“Model,” I growled under my breath (it’s a reflex). She was wearing a white, lace negligee. I grabbed David, who was now drooling. We walked to the door without saying anything, stepped onto the elevator, and I threw up deuces, just to be sassy.
Before we knew it, David and I were at a bar on East 4th, laughing with our friends. But for the rest of the night, I swear I smelled a little like ginger peach.
*Due to some confusion, I must tell you that half of this is not true (the half that seems absolutely ridiculous).