As I sit here in a coffee shop next to a large (tall and husky, not fat), makeup-free red-haired woman who could feasibly be a transvestite and is leaning in and gazing at the man across from her, who is model-beautiful with a half-beard and who has not yet taken off his coat because he doesn’t want to commit, I can’t help but think that we should all just kill ourselves now.

It is a Saturday morning, and it is brunch time, so one may deduce that they had spent the evening together last night, although they are giving off more of a co-worker vibe than anything.  At least he is.  He is picking up the muffin crumbs off of his plate and depositing them into his mouth with his fingers.  Now he’s washing it down with water.  This is not a man who aims to impress.  He is now squishing up the remaining crumbs  on his plate with a finger and licking them off.  And while leaning in, the red-haired woman’s face indicates that she realizes that this may not, in fact, be a date.

The attractive man takes out his smartphone and leans in.  She was already leaning in, so she doesn’t have to.  He reads to her from his many many texts.  She touches her neck and asks him how he would feel about her buying a bike.  He says “hang on,” while he continues to check his texts.  There must be at least 15 really great messages on there.  Charles Dickens-grade drama coming through the cell phone.

She is wearing a blue and white Nordic sweater, possibly a cardigan.  He pulls out a black motorcycle helmet.  He gets up to leave and she leans in.  He leans over and KISSES her.  WHAT?

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“See you later,” he says.  “Bye,” she says.  Once he leaves, she takes out her own Smartphone, and then an iPad, and gets down to business.

Apparently, they are in love.

She gets up to get some water.* The end.

*She may also be pregnant.  Or is she just husky? Good thing I didn’t just kill myself, because apparently, love still exists, somewhere, in some sort of form that I do not understand.

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