On The Ultimate Futility Caused by Toothpaste on Your Sleeve

She’s English. Her friend needs to use the phone in the office, and I let her, at first against my better judgement. But She’s blonde, and very cute, and I am lonely lately, so any feminine attention at all is like cold pizza at 3 a.m., not really what you want, but good enough to get you through. I really don’t want these two stangers in my office. Not until She speaks, that is.

“This place was recommended to us by collegues, so you had better make sure we have a good time.” Coy, without the slightest hint of demanding. The wink was built in to her voice. And that accent just floors me.

She and her friend retreat into the club, and within minutes are having so much fun they can’t wait to buy a souvinir. We’re out of T-shirts, sorry ladies, the waitress says. But a little constructive digging around in the office produces the last one, hidden away in the back of a shelf behind a box of utterly useless junk.

She beams when I bring it out. She’s let her golden hair out of the pony tail. She’s wearing a sassy little denim jacket with a pink support ribbon (breast cancer?) She touches my arm, looks me directly in the eye to thank me for finding the one thing that can make Her supremely happy at that moment. Her eyes shine with the possibilites of all the ways I might make Her happy in the future. I look down at Her hand, pure white and soft on the dark red sleeve of my shirt, almost in awe that She has deemed to touch me.

And there’s a toothpaste stain on the cuff of my sleeve.

Another perfect romance down the drain. Fuck.