Write your own
love story.

Farmers market. She’s arguing with the tomato guy about what ripe means. She’s wrong. She’s also laughing with her whole face. So now I own four pounds of tomatoes and an opinion. I don’t eat tomatoes. I’d like to lose this argument for a very long time.

Another airport. Another flight. Another man giving me the once, make that twice, over. He’s attractive. I’ll give him that. Nice eyes. Nicer lips. And I like that look he’s giving me. But I’ve seen it before. The intent. Yet, never the follow-through.

The bar’s full. He’s at the far end, pretending to read. Same line, four times. I counted. I slide my drink down to him. On the napkin, two words: not yet. He looks up. Good. Now he knows who’s writing this.

The gallery closes at nine. The guard does crosswords and hates his shift. The Vermeer is a fake and three people know. I’m two of them. I need a getaway driver who can parallel park and keep a secret. You look like you can do one. We’ll work on the other.