You were standing in front of me in the Subway at Miller and Indian School. The only reason I noticed is because you were wearing a black tube top which revealed an ample and well-received chest. Perhaps you noticed me pretending not to stare at it? The only reason I mention it now is because you eventually smiled at me, which I’m fairly certain meant you were open to a relationship, even if it was just a brief, unplanned one shortly after your combo lunch deal.
I think you initially smiled because the sandwich maker refused to give me a foot-long steak with cold meat because “it was against store policy” and he “couldn’t let me walk out the door with unheated steak”. You wordlessly conveyed the familiar “What a Nazi!” sentiment with nothing but an expression. Of course, I had no idea how to follow up your receptive demeanor, a demeanor which was augmented by the amount of visible tattoos that clearly implied you did not take life so seriously that you were opposed to casual sex in the middle of the day with a stranger. Oh, I just stood there and nodded. I admit… I blew it.
At his point, I understand I don’t deserve a second chance. However, something about the length of your fingernails, absurd glossiness of your lipstick, pierced nose… I don’t really know, but something suggested there may at least be a wealth of pictures of you on the internet somewhere. Maybe you can send me a link and perhaps a free password?