This One

This one has a thing for blondes. A type, for sure. He currently has crushes on 5 girls, each one blonder than the last, and I try not to let it bother me, that I am not his type. His mother. Oedipal Ew notwithstanding, it's a glimpse into a future wherein I am not the only woman in his life, and I swear I am okay with that. Or I will work on it and will be when the time comes.

This one just came over to me as I am writing this even though I told him I need alone time, and he stood next to me and read, This one, this one has a thing for bananas? He has a dimple in the strangest place on his face, a little below his bottom lip on the left. Sometimes he makes me so angry, and then—that dimple!

This one came with me car shopping the other day, for a used Audi. At the dealership, the man helping me was dressed in a 3-piece suit and clearly did not want to waste his time on me and my used (up) budget. Still, I asked for a test drive, and driving down the street in that butter-soft Audi, the man rattled off specs on the Bang & Olufsen sound system, seeming to know that I had no idea what he was talking about. He asked me what music I wanted to listen to as he fiddled with his phone. Anything, I said, when from the back seat, Ozzy said he wanted to hear The Buttcracker. The Nutcracker? the man said smirking, and Ozzy said no, not Tchaikovsky, The Buttcracker, in the tune of farts, please. I nodded yes, yes, that is what I want to listen to, to make sure the Bang & Olufsen sound system was up to par. So the man found it, and we drove on in plush, leathery silence—because oh, how that car drove beautifully silent!—listening to a ballet of farts.

You know, that one.