When I asked about your tea selection, what I really meant to say was Goddamn you’re pretty.
A schmaltzy, eerily familiar tune that loops along, accordions swelling and shrinking, high-heeled, lipsticked women la-la-la-la-la-la-ing.
When should we run? After we have locked the door?
No creature wants such beauty, such attention.
I know now what a smiley face can do, and I exercise it judiciously.
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