Dear totally hot international guy sitting next to me at the bar at Dosa last night,
I know I worked it into the conversation 3 times, but he’s my roommate. I mean, we have separate bedrooms and everything. I tried to give him eye signals to get lost, but he can’t read my series of winks and nods yet. As soon as I sat next to you, I was overwhelmed by your crisp white shirt, rolled sleeves and Tag Heuer, not to mention your incredibly hot Ivy League, young Deepak Chopra vibe dining alone at an upscale Indian restaurant. I just wanted to cover myself in marigolds and red dots when we discussed restaurants, us both frequenting the same fabulous and oft-reviewed hot spots. I was practically beside myself when my made-up excuse to talk to you resulted in you offering me food, and died and went to heaven when you ordered a single glass of champagne with your bizarre, foreign dessert. I hope I wasn’t obvious with my four blatant arm touches and one bold back pat. I simply wanted to experience what I can only assume was custom made in Delhi or Hong Kong. When we were finally seated away from the bar, my roommate (again, ROOMMATE) pointed out that you were obviously flirting with me. He encouraged me to go back to the bar and talk to you, to leave you my business card or ask you out for chai. But I was too chicken, and too busy enjoying your recommendation of the onion bhaji with the Chenin Blanc. But if you read this, and you probably will, I hope very much to go on lots of dates with you to the marvelous restaurants we discussed and so look forward to your building me my very own Taj Mahal.
You are hot, guy at the bar at Dosa last night, and I think I love you.
PS. Seriously. He’s my roommate…