He arrived first. Already had his meal. Set up his laptop.
She came next with that insipid baby voice some women use to placate men. Lulu lemon. Basic vibes.
He grins and laughs awkwardly as she talks about the men she is dating.
They are just friends.
He wants more than that.
She knows it.
It’s clear that she enjoys torturing him.
I wonder why he is so oblivious.
Undoubtedly, there is another woman in his life, with a deep longing, crushing her way through life, hanging on hope for this man’s affection. He ignores her.
Lululemon-baby whines her way through recounting her life. She casually touches his arm as she makes fun of the men she has rejected—cementing his fear of confessing his feelings.
She’s in it for the control and the validation. He’s in it for the fantasy.
He’ll marry the other woman, when he gets lonely enough, then he’ll spend their life together resenting her for not being this bitch.
There Is No Title 
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