You saw me today on the MAX, giving directions to confused passengers.
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You saw me driving my green Ford pick-up around Halsey, brushing my dark curls aside to put on my sunglasses.
You saw me last year at the String Summit, wearing my blue "wild and crazy kids" t-shirt.
I'm your beautiful, intelligent co-worker with whom you had a failed affair.
I ripped your heart to shreds.
I am the Belmont Coffee Beauty.
I am fiery, long-lost Kaylene.
And I saw you, too, across the crowded MAX train, lurking in self-help at Powell's, picking out bananas at Fred Meyer's. And I, too, was instantly intrigued by your sincere smile/sparkling eyes/hot ass. I was too shy/busy/frazzled to say hello, but I think of you often and am quite smitten.
And I would love to meet you/buy you a drink/help you pick out a good banana sometime.
It's just that I read your post on Missed Connections and my image of you instantly deflated. Your ignorance of the American language and grammar rules cheapen the meaningful eye contact/conversation/hot blowjob we once shared, and now I've lost all interest.
If you can't distinguish between "your" and "you're," how will you ever please me intellectually/emotionally/sexually? I can't be attracted to or intrigued by you when you make such blatant errors.
It seems that my real missed connection is with that elusive squiggle that hovers (ghostlike) between so few u's and r's.
If you're out there, apostrophe, and you read this, call me. I think we will have a true friendship/a long-lasting love/a hot fuck.