Let’s get something straight, first: You aren’t my type. Really. Don’t get me wrong; I dig the tats. When I saw you walking your dog outside of my apartment building this morning, they were the first thing I noticed about you. But I don’t go for blondes. And those soccer sandals, worn over ankle socks, really killed any chance we ever could have had. Sorry. You probably just rolled out of bed like that. I’m a tough critic.
Now that we have that out of the way, I want to tell you a few things.
First, thank you for making an obvious display of checking me out the way you did. I was coming back from a long run, feeling fat, out of shape, and generally disgusting. It’s nice to think that maybe I’ve still got it, even when my face is red and I’m huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf.
Second, when I appeared to be smiling back at you, I hope you noticed I was wearing dark sunglasses. Through my shades, I bet you couldn’t tell that I wasn’t actually smiling at you. I was smiling at that white, fluffy little puppy you were walking. I wanted to pick her up and take her home with me. I’m sure we would have been best buddies.
And finally, you should know that I know that you have a girlfriend. Because what straight man would walk that dog, so early in the morning, unless he was doing it for a woman? It was sweet of you to get up early like that and walk her little dog. You probably told her to stay in bed while you threw on your pajama pants and slipped on those soccer sandals. “Don’t worry,” you probably said. “I’ll take her out if it means you get to sleep in.” That was really considerate. So why, then, must you be checking out other women? I had a lovely picture of your whole relationship in my head, right up until the moment you ruined it by looking at me like that.
I feel for your girlfriend. If I ever meet her, I’m going to tell her, “Don’t worry about him. I’ll take the dog out if it means you choose better men.”