I always walk through Central Park on my way to work.  Four or five days a week, at varying times, since last May.  Often enough that the pedicab drivers, who yell out and solicit every passing pedestrian, don’t really pester me anymore.

Until last Monday, that is.  Two ciggie-smoking Irish pedicab drivers caught me coming out of the park on the East side, and called out to be in coy, dulcet accents:

“Would ya like a tour of the park, miss?”  The younger one, who I nicknamed Colin Farrell in my mind.

Normally, I wouldn’t respond, but you know how I am when it comes to accents.

“No, thanks,”  I grinned.  “I’m on my way to work.”

The older one, Liam Neeson, took a drag on his cigarette, and exhaled.

“Would ya like dinner?”

I laughed.  Giggled.

“I’ll get back to you on that one.”