You’re willing to fight for what I deserve. And I think we can agree, the least I deserve is a new Benz.
You categorically accept my claim that “This is not entirely my fault.”Like I told you, I was looking down at my phone at the stoplight. It turns out I had ordered my Starbucks at the WRONG Starbucks. Imagine finding out you were driving in the opposite direction, away from the venti salted caramel brulee no whip you believed would be waiting for you steaming hot, and then you had to pull a U-turn quickly so that said beverage would not be ice cold by the time you arrive. Yes, I should have checked my blindspot. But that nun on the bicycle had it coming, what with not wearing a reflective vest.
You look hunky with your arms folded. That pinstripe suit? Immaculate. When your arms move from akimbo to crossed across that stocky chest? Swoon.
You answer my calls, even though the possibility of my being hysterical on the other end is 305%. THANKYOUSOMUCHFORBEINGTHEREEVENATTHREEOCLOCKINTHEMORRRRRNNNINNNNNGGGG.
You sandwich any bad news between two thick slices of triumphantly good news. Like kale in a cold-pressed juice, you always manage to blend the hard-to-swallow with a delicious fruity chaser.
You fill your Zoom background with shelves of physical books–some of which you’ve actually read. Some I recognize, some look like Clifford the Big Red Dog. You must be a collector.
You never flex when you win, but rather effect an air of “I’ve been here before.” You consider the only true victory is when we win.
You get along famously with your father and grandfather. How cute that you all have the same name!
You completely agree that I shouldn’t have to work in that hellhole a single day more. And will do everything in your power to ensure I won’t have to.
You pick up my family’s collective ax to grind over the poor visibility at night on Plinko Road rather than pouting in a corner until they shut up about it. Uncle Roger’s fender bender happened three years ago and yet it’s my family’s favorite topic, and you don’t even seem to find that annoying.
You are remarkably comfortable talking about finances.
You are eminently at ease approaching the bar.
You sometimes, while standing alone, or even alongside a colleague, gaze off into the distance, the neo-Grecian pillars of our city’s municipal administration building behind you. I bet you’re just over there pondering the balance of justice.
You say, “I’m handling it.” Because you’re Actually Handing It.
Your phone number is easy to remember. So cute that the last four digits are also your last name!
You tell me I’ll look very convincing in this neck brace.
1-15: Future boyfriend
1-16: Personal injury lawyer
