Every five pounds I drop
the amount I get hit on rises
by an order of magnitude.
Either it's the weight, or the posture, or the pleasantly animal musk that floats off of me every morning, or the fact that I'm always a little tired and out of it. It might take the edge off. I remember in college, I figured out that the best chance I had of being able to talk to people at parties was to not sleep the night before. It took the wild, zingy, nervous edge off.
Anyway, I was at a cafe the other day and I asked a question in passing of the exceedingly charming, ripped-jeans-surfer-hippie-sexy barista and suddenly found myself being chatted up. She leaned over and checked out my iPod and told me I had excellent taste. The next time I showed up there, she told me I was getting my macchiato in "the best cup in the house," which, at first, just seemed like a pink cup, until I looked a little closer:
The text reads, for those of you who can't read in mirror-image:
BOOBY TRAP
The Very Best Show In Town
Curator tells me that I was, indeed, being flirted with.
(For those of you who are still looking, the second poem is the cup.)
1 comment:
My darling, it actually reads:
"The Very Breast Show In Town."
It's as if she can read your mind. I'm afraid I might have competition.
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