“Somebody who works here.”
“Is it you?” he asked confidently.
“I do think you’re handsome but no, it wasn’t I.”
“Does this person have a penis?”
“Phew. OK. Does this person outweigh me?”
“I doubt it.”
“Is she blind?”
“How would she serve tables if she were blind?”
“She’s cute, silly.”
Once I found out who it was I swelled with pride. Then my dark side rose and began planting the seeds of doubt.
I’m probably twenty years older than she is. So what? If she doesn’t care why should I? She certainly is cute. I guess I should do a little research and make sure she has career aspirations, high credit scores, and good housekeeping habits. Right. Her lovely posterior renders the rest insignificant.
God, it would suck to be a woman. I can detect mate’s worthiness from twenty paces. A woman must do all sorts of background checks before proceeding. She can’t look at his hand and surmise Cockasaurus Rex will do. No. She must get to know the inside. Her digging only confuses the male and causes him to lie. He must not allow the tainted darkness to spoil his candy coating.
I tell myself it matters if the source of flattery is kind and smart, but it doesn’t--not really. Well, sure, long-term it will matter, depending on how amazing the sex is. Right now, she thinks I’m handsome (“cute” is reserved for men under 40) and that’s enough. As she peels away my layers, I hope it doesn’t make her cry.