I’d be a better date than the waitress. I swear.
I’d let you take your shoes off and sit in my comfy chair. I’d buy you mimosas and then promise to be a good sponsor — for you, only for you. I’d invite you into my apartment, let you shower and hope that you show off. I’d revel at your muscles and even throw the basketball game. That last one would be difficult, but I understand sacrifice. I’d introduce you to my favorite karaoke bar and sing a killer backup vocal. Or if you want me to take the lead, that’s cool, too.
I’d share with you all my deepest, darkest secrets like: my favorite color is green; my music taste is varied but I lean toward indie rock; and my dog Cleo is my best friend. There is so much more to share. I am miles deep.
But most of all, I’d appreciate you and ignore Dennis. When he hits on me — and we know he will; an ego that size is hard to stomp out — I’d say: “Sorry, I got a man.”
The waitress doesn’t deserve you. She never will.
Call me, please.