I know he's not the one for me.
If I'm honest with myself, I've known for a while.
He's cute. Very cute. Chocolate And tall and broad. Charismatic and
witty with a smile that could light up a whole room and a booming voice
that I'm sure, at some point, incited some butterflies in me. I can
understand why women like him.
But to me, he's cute, like most guys from Brooklyn. His height, once
perfect, is average. His brown skin more chocolate with almonds and his
voice the same timbre as a piano that plays a perpetually flat A sharp.
His smile more of a sneer, as if he has a mean joke waiting to explode
from his lips. Those butterflies, a distant memory that may have just
been a side effect of the acquisition of something new, like the feeling
of getting a new pair of shoes in the mail.
But he's there, sometimes.
I think, often, that I'm selling myself, and he, short by remaining. But
he doesn't demand much of me. And I don't really have much to offer so I
suppose it works.
