This was the best date I’d ever been on. And it wasn’t even a date. I looked at her, balancing on the balls of her feet off a concrete parking lot divider. She had no makeup on. Sweats. Hair in fucking curlers. Hell, she didn’t even change out of the shirt with the enormous lasagna stain on the front before we left the house. And she was a thousand times better than the drop-dead gorgeous yoga instructor from a few hours earlier. Fun. Witty. Smart. Beautiful. The cool girl. And nothing that I could have.
