He doesn’t know I exist. He’s too busy pushing a reluctant three-year-old on the squeaky red swing. He’s wearing the uniform of the species: faded band t-shirt (Nirvana, always Nirvana), cargo shorts with too many pockets, and New Balance sneakers that have seen better grass stains.
Because I used to think romance was candlelit dinners and “Netflix and chill.” I used to think a crush required mystery and six-pack abs. 317. Dad Crush
Here is why I am utterly, irrevocably smitten: He doesn’t know I exist
To the guy at the indoor playground: I’m not going to talk to you. That would ruin the magic. Plus, you’re probably married and I’m just here for the Wi-Fi. Because I used to think romance was candlelit
Last week, I watched him spend eleven minutes convincing his daughter that applesauce is a valid food group. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t threaten to leave. He simply sat on the floor, cross-legged, and asked, “Do you want the purple pouch or the green one?” When she threw the green one on the floor, he picked it up, wiped it on his shirt, and tried again. Eleven minutes. I felt my cold, cynical heart do a backflip.
And there he is.