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  • dearabi

>Closed Mouths Don’t Get Fed

>

It’s hot as shit outside. And I’m here, inside. A gym. A moist one. That stank like must that’s been marinating in last weeks homelessness. Whatever, I’ll live. I’ve been through worse.

I look over at at Jess hoping she’s ok and doesn’t have a bored, “I am never kicking it with this broad ever again,” look on her face although I had warned her ahead of time we’re here strictly to support. ‘Cuz the entire city of San Francisco is steadily running out of cute guys, so the chances of one being here are slim to, “GTFOH”.

And then he walks in. And as if we’re the newest members of the Jabbawockeez, we all do a synchronized head turn. My eyes get big. She smirks. And she can’t even look at me. Actually, I think she’s about to die. I nonchalantly look over. HE JUST DROPPED HIS PANTS. OMG can he not?! I look around for a mop. OK, no. I’m kidding, it’s not that serious. Just a little serious.

“Remember, you met his brother at my birthday party?” she says. (Who cares I think to myself. His other brother is in front of me putting on his shorts like it’s nobody’s business. Well, it really isn’t.)

“Oh yaaaaah,” I say. (Why wasn’t Viva la Sexy there though? I think).

OK. I’m done. Handsome mos def, but he’s totally more of Jess’s type. I concentrate back to the game. Whattaya know. There’s hope yet. So I’m ecstatic, asides from the fact that I look like shit and didn’t even bother to look decent that day. ‘Cuz who the fuck looks good for a game anyway?

And then he walks in. And it’s like a fucking John Woo movie. You know, like that scene from Face Off where Nicholas Cage (or was it John Travolta?) is walking out of the fire in slow motion as doves fly everywhere behind him. FUCK WHERE IS THAT MOP? Now I want to die. I grab my phone and text her so fast I swear smoke is rising from my fingertips: “Guess who’s my husband? Just fucking guess!”

I put my phone back in my purse just as he drops his duffel bag on the floor right next to me. I contemplate crawling inside so that he can bring me home with him but I don’t wanna feel claustraphobic. I can’t stop smiling inside. But I refuse to let it show outside. I end up looking constipated I’m sure. “God? Are you there? Can you make sure this guy is single, and happens to like petite Filipina girls?” I summon the courage to peek in his direction. Head band. Light skin. Well-groomed facial hair. 5’9″ maybe even 5’10” (swoooon). Tatted sleeve. Oh for the love of Ron Jeremy. STOP IT. Just fucking stop it. You’re acting like … like … YOU AGAIN.

I do stop. Momentarily. Just enough to throw in a “Come on D-up!” in the mix. I want to leave now. They’re losing. Oh snap, little dude got handles. Oh snap, little dude just shot a 3. Oh snap, they’re tied. “Wanna stay till the end of this game?” she asks. “Sure.”

Just then he sits down in front of me. Even the back of his neck is sexy. He’s so beautiful. It almost hurts. I want to take a picture of him and then remember that a restraining order is not a good look. I pretend he doesn’t exist intead. I think I’m trying too hard to pretend he doesn’t exist. I’m not doing it on purpose though. Whenever he’s even in my peripherals I want to run for the hills. But I don’t. I pretend I’m busy DJ-ing lmao. What? Don’t judge me! I change the song. I pretend I’m really, really into finding the next one. The games done. We fucking lost. I know why, it’s because he didn’t propose to me during half-time. I LMAO in my head and vow to flush my crazy-pills down the toilet when I get home.

Everyone’s leaving now. Except for him … and him … and HIM. Fuck, go home arleady I have to hand him this banner. He’s right there. Talking to him. And now they’re not, but he’s in the same area. Alone. Packing up that duffel bag I had moments ago wanted to climb in. I could totally go over there. Give this to him. And then throw in a comment ’bout his performance today. But he kinda sucked? Ummm … “Nice under armour?” WTF are you retarded? Ummm … “Good hustle?” No, too generic. I could just go, hand him the banner, and then smile at him as I walk away. That wouldn’t hurt right? Hmmm …

So what do I end up doing? Walking to the (completely) empty bleachers opposite of him and sit there by myself like a loner. And I wait. I wait like a 7 year old girl waiting for her mommy to pick her up from basketball practice until he finishes talking to him and walks out of the gym. I bet. He doesn’t even know I’m alive.

Is this you?

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