I wonder if these fantasies have anything to do with my disappointment in my friends when I am dropped off at home with nothing but a full stomach and a budding erection. Needless to say, the feelings must be mutual. I do not make enjoyable company while I’m constantly craning my neck to see some tall drink of water and ignore everything be said.

“So, Max, what do you think?”

And I’m brought back to earth.

“I’m sorry, but have you seen that man over there, why she is just gorgeous?” is my response.

While getting dressed in the morning, I imagine what I want to be wearing when I meet this elusive man-of-my-dreams. I apply a facial moisturizer I can’t afford, put on white Henley that does wonders for showing my body, and pull on my favorite pair of slacks I just managed to pay off. I rarely take into account that I am about to walk into a war zone of espresso grinds, steamed milk, and bleach based cleaners. In the afternoon, I pause to admire the beams of sunlight that stream across my sweaty face, my coffee stained outfit, and my cracked, dry hands. I have not turned off the open signs because Mr. Right may be running late.

Although I have not yet encountered a hard day’s work or a funeral that is concluded in erotic bliss, doesn’t mean it won’t happen tomorrow. When the time comes, I promise myself I will be ready. Before going to bed each night, I rehearse conversations with my mirror of what I will say to the most beautiful man in the world.

“Yes, I would love for you to give me the world, how did you know?”