You sat in the Italian bakery: eyebrows raised, head tilted to one side, attempting to look interested while I discussed the intricacies of bridge maintenance and the Wesleyan Quadrilateral. Your bra straps are revealed to me on one shoulder (which you are aware of); they are sleek and black and are making me uncomfortable (which you are also aware of).
I was the man with a sweater over my dress shirt (because this morning I was late, and I didn't have time to iron). I am 26, but remind you of your father. I am the man who met you after work, chastised you for not wearing a helmet, and sent you home with almond cookies.
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