This morning, a young couple walks into my cafe. I'm still half drunk from last night, so I'm not even eligible for a hangover yet. This venomous brunette (the type whose looks inflates your cock, at first glance) approaches the counter. She's wearing low-cut denim, bragging the dimples in her lower back, along with a pair of black, closed-toed, come-fuck-me heels. The guy she's with--twenty paces behind her, near the pitchers of Half&Half--in a nutshell, doesn't look like he belongs with her, which means he's smart and/or rich and/or has a big dick. Scratch smart. He blew that by omitting his association with her when they walked in. As she massages the honey packets' contents into her tea, she smirks up at me, "You look just like Jason Scwartzmen. Do you get that?"
"...quite often" I admitted.

She leaned in, almost whispering, "I find him so cute."
At the mental snap of my fingers, I correlated what she'd just said with what she meant to say. So I ask, "That's not your boyfriend behind you?"
And it wasn't so much her answer that invoked my pity for him, but the amount of disenchantment in her voice when she breathed out, "...yes."
She walked away right after. As if some urgency suddenly arose. As if she felt remorseful for feeling how she felt. Whatever it was, I wasn't ready to pursue it. I didn't have the energy...I don't have the energy.

Instead, I pocketed the ten points of confidence I'd earned. I'll save it for a rainy day.