A girl walks into a coffee shop.

A girl walks into a coffee shop.

She’s nothing much to look at, the guy seated at the window thinks. But there is something about her confident stride and smart dress that makes him decide to approach her nonetheless.

« Can I ask you a question? » He coos, flashing his poster-ready smile and generously offering her his picture-perfect profile. Oh, fuck, the girl of average beauty thinks, immediately detecting his deplorable Narcissism.

« You’ve just answered your own question. » She shoots back with thinly-masked annoyance and disdain at the redundancy of his stupid question. (And so dispels the myth that there is no such thing as a stupid question. There is. Most definitely. Stupid people, too!)

Shocked that his dazzling good looks have no effect, impressed at her quick wit, flat out turned on by the dominant way she put this would-be wooer in his place, and yet determined to conquer this unremarkable girl whom he viewed only as that, a potential conquest, he blurts out: « I think I’m in love! »

« Darling, we just broke up. » She shoots back again, in as polite a way as patronizing could be; somewhat like explaining a very basic fact to a child. « Mommy, why do I have to wear rain boots? » « Because it’s raining outside, honey. » Like this.

With these five simple words, the average girl conveys to the guy that clearly the impression she has made on him is not at all reciprocal. Having no other ammo ready for use (i.e. intellect, humour, humanity), he is speechless.

The girl, having reached the front of the queue, orders her long double espresso to go and leaves. The two never see each other again and the guy soon forgets altogether this plain girl who caused him a moment of shocked shame as he was shot down so sharply.

What a bitch, he thinks. Then he goes back to drinking his coffee in the window of the coffee shop. What a dick, she thinks. Then she goes walking down the street and mentally prepares a grocery list for that evening’s dinner.

The two never bump into each other again.

Moral of the story?

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À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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