I’m not going to pretend to be holier-than-thou/learned/academic. There is nothing quite as stupefying as someone who’s so unbelievably, excessively attractive that you’d offer to bear their children before they open their mouths.
Halfway through a scintillating conversation with your friends, you see him glide across the room- time stands still- you sit, gobsmacked, muted, suddenly the ridiculous song playing in the background seems to be singing *only* to you (“I wanna make luurve in this cluuuurb”), his smile, his eyes, his preposterously suggestive jeans… someone pass me a paper bag--- there is a God.
And then Adonis finally *does* open his mouth.
You really really wish they hadn’t- they don’t know it, but by doing so they dashed all your lifelong hopes and dreams- dreams of pillow fights in the rain, dreams of him cooking in nothing but your apron, dreams of him crying as you walk down the isle.
Amazingly, you stumble across (accidentally-on-purpose) one another at the bar. Smile, hold eye contact, fumble, act busy, blush… etc etc. You start to converse despite yourself- how you can remember your name in the face of such beauty is just *beyond*.
Adonis can talk. Woohoo. And talk he does. At first, you’re mesmerised. Wow, he’s got these sparkly white molars (where do people even GET those?!). And a mouth you just wanna pounce on. Oh wait… he’s telling you he’s a maltese poodle breeder. And because he’s so so so tragically good looking, you listen. Hmm, ok, he loves German comedy. (?? Does that even exist??) Then in a moment of clarity you look down and realise he’s wearing a pointy-toed snakeskin cowboy boots. And not in that “Johnny Depp” kinda way. In the “I bought these today” way. But because you’re no quitter, you stick it out and continue to listen. Adonis hasn’t asked your name yet. Not sure he even cares if you’re deaf.
Friends are twittering like crazy at first “GIRL’S ON FIRE!! @HOTSEXYBIATCH”… “I SEE AN hello! WEDDING!! @GAGGINGFORIT”… etc. Then they hear just a smattering of the conversation and start motioning that dreaded “slit-your-throat” move. Oh God.
You exchange numbers. He flits off in a flurry of cameras and you think “wow, he must be a really really important maltese poodle breeder”.
Despite the level of brainless conversation, you still think he could be ‘your type’.
He calls you and asks if you want to “meet for a caffe”. Broken English and all, these schmodel types don’t really ever seem to be in school long enough to learn how to speak adequately. And why would they need to?
If you think trying to get into your skinny jeans on a fat day is stressful, try getting dressed for a date with a model. I mean, really. There is no point. Mightaswell pretend you were in a car accident on the way there.
The “caffe” date turns out to be just a hearing as to how wonderful he is over an ice tea (coffee gives him “bad skin”). It’s what dating a hyperchondriac anorexic peroxided 19 year old Benoni girl must be like, if you can imagine such a thing.
It could have been beautiful.
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