Girl, you are clearly falling in love. It’s just, the way you piroutte on your tip toes with a giddy glee. Or how you fret at the edges of your skirt because the voice on the other end of the call makes you nervous in a good way. Or maybe I can tell because you’re gently stroking that tree like it’s a man’s hard body. My goodness girl, with your sly smile, like that glimmer of sunrise at 4 am, whoever’s on the phone with you is damn lucky. They can’t see the brightness of your eyes, your delicate gestures, the hint of a glimpse of a half dozen complex mannerisms that I’m certain are extraordinarily endearing. They can hear your voice, though. I’ll bet it sounds like a thousand unicorns fucking a rainbow.
I wish you were falling in love with me.
I assure you, I’m not so bad. Sure, I’m leering at you curiously through the large bay windows of this coffee shop. My pants may be stained by no less than three unfortunate spill incidents today and my shirt bears the pit marks of a lower congo gorilla in heat. But I’m a nice guy! You just have to look past my soiled feet, trampled backpack, and gnarled hands from attempting to type on an iPad for an hour. If you hung up and came in here and chatted with me for a minute or two, I assure you that you probably won’t get a venereal disease. You may even hear me stumble over my words, suck a mouthful of arnold palmer into my lungs, and hack up a bolus of flem juice on your nice pink sweatshirt.
Ain’t that grand?
Just hang up and come hang out. Love with the stranger on the phone can wait for another day. You’ll never get second chance for love with that creepy guy in the coffee shop.