Girl, I’m tired of fooling around. I’m done with Tinder and Grouper and Grinder. I’m looking for the real thing: flowers, fireworks and a few radical plot twists. Girl, I wanna date you, Hollywood-style.
I want to meet you at an indie coffee shop where we reach for the same drink. Babe, I want to win you over after a dramatic courtship involving multiple misunderstandings, like when you learn I’m actually a journalist on assignment or part of the royal family or only dated you to get close to your friend. After losing you at the worst possible moment, I’ll earn back your trust with a spontaneous group dance performance or some freestyle rap.
I want to take you back to my place, girl. My apartment will be unfeasibly large considering my low-paying job and the current real-estate climate, but this will go unmentioned. Once we’re inside, I’ll remove your many-buttoned dress with the steady hand of a surgeon to find lacy underwear at odds with your dowdy daily get-up. I’ll then reveal an implausibly chiseled body given my chosen profession and throw you down on my conveniently uncluttered desk.
Our first time together will be poetry in motion, baby. We’ll effortlessly navigate cuts and panorama shots to try out every sexual position. You’ll have the flexibility of a dancer despite never having taken a class. I’ll be oblivious to any blemishes and won’t accidentally eat your hair. Not even once. It’ll be like a Bikram yoga studio in there, but neither of us will even sweat. To preserve the PG-rating, you’ll leave your bra on and I won’t remove my boxers. But we’ll have seamless sex regardless, ‘cause clothing ain’t no barrier baby.
When we wake up the next morning, your hair will be flawless and your make-up still intact. You’ll leave in a hurry muttering something about work/family/time travel. The sex will have changed everything. I know; I’ve seen it in the movies.
In the weeks that follow, you’ll return to your job at an art gallery because apparently that’s where all women work these days. I’ll survive solely on take-out Chinese and watch seasons pass by in a montage of loneliness. I’ll pen you hundreds of heartfelt letters you’ll never receive before learning from a friend that you’re leaving the country. Naturally, I’ll race to the airport to stop you. I’ll pass through airport security without a single form of documentation only to arrive at the gate seconds after you’ve left.
Years later, I’ll see you in the street and we’ll make small talk. We’ll both have perfect nuclear families and no debt but we’ll pine for our lost relationship, though neither of us will say so. One day we’ll tell the story to our respective kids. Maybe they’ll make a movie about it. That’s how I wanna date you.