I couldn't think of any other title for this poem... Yes, romantic desperadoes visit the Chick-Fil-A drive-thru sometimes. My most dramatic flirt-story to date! And no, I have never figured out how on earth he got my number.
"Hey, you." Winks. Again?
Cringing, I wangle out stiff smile,
hand him coins, wishing
red and black was camouflage.
"You're cute." Well.
"Like, wow. You're not from around here?" Wish he'd drive on, but he does
not.
You sleazy freak
I groan inside,
but he doesn't hear. They never do.
Ends up he asks if I'm
cuffed up
*had to look that up on
urban dictionary later*
and if I'd go out with him that night.
He gets a very sturdy "No,"
(is spared the rest)
and he drives off shrieking
my name into the parking lot,
down the road,
into the red light,
bless his soul.
Rubbing my temples,
I pull out a smile
for the next guest.
At home, five giggling sisters are entertained.
I?
Am not.
Because he's followed me home.
Sits there in the palm of my hand,
empty words and
crying-laughing emoji
hiccuping out of an
innocent grey text bubble.
I pop it.
He never blows another.