Saw you at Home Depot, price-comparing brands of loam. I thought it was sexy how you instantly vetted out the inferior brands of loam based on clay-to-silt ratio. You took the last bag, noticed me eyeing you, and offered it to me – an act which belied a generous nature. I declined (well, I say “declined” – in fact, I backpedaled and slowly made a 90-degree turn into the fixtures aisle in a languid, graceless “moonwalk”).
I noted your license number as you drove away. For that is what the love-struck do.
I hope we meet again. Perhaps you will need some cedar chips someday, or a drill bit. Until then, I think only of you. Well, and that other hot girl who was buying a garage-door opener. But more you than her.
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