Loathe at First Sight
Loathe at First Sight
By Ellen Conford
"You're dripping on my toes."
"I'm sorry. I was admiring you from afar, and I wanted to admire you from a-near. From afar you looked terrific."
"Oh, thanks a lot. Meaning, up close I look like a toad."
"That's not what I meant at all! You look good up close too. I love your bathing suit."
"Then why do you keep staring at my toes?"
"It's that clear stuff on them. What do you call that?"
"Nail polish."
"I know, I know. I mean, what color is it?"
"Rosy Dawn. Look, what is this with my toes?"
"Rosy Dawn. That's kind of romantic. I would have thought it was just pink."
"Will you stop talking about my toes? What are you, weird or something?"
"No! Oh, boy, this whole conversation has gotten off the wrong foot. Wrong foot—ha! Get it? Foot, toes?"
"Ha ha."
"Just a little humor to lighten up the tense situation. I thought you'd appreciate a good joke."
"I do appreciate a good joke."
"I just thought it was too early in our relationship to make personal comments about how great you look in a bathing suit."
"Our relationship? What relationship?"
"The one we're going to have."
"Oh, really? Have you always been this sure of yourself?"
"Have you always been this sarcastic? Look, I just wanted—"
"And besides, toes are personal. Personal comments about toes are just as—as personal as comments about how I look in my bathing suit."
"Well, all right, do you want me to tell you how I think you look in your bathing suit?"
"No. I'm really not interested in your opinion of how I look in my bathing suit."
"Okay, then. How do I look in mine?"
"Wet."
"Picture me dry."
"Please. I already had a nightmare last night."
"That's not very nice."
"Look, I'm sorry, but you just walk up to me, drip on my feet, and start raving about my toes and have the gall to make this incredible assumption that I'm going to be
By Ellen Conford
"You're dripping on my toes."
"I'm sorry. I was admiring you from afar, and I wanted to admire you from a-near. From afar you looked terrific."
"Oh, thanks a lot. Meaning, up close I look like a toad."
"That's not what I meant at all! You look good up close too. I love your bathing suit."
"Then why do you keep staring at my toes?"
"It's that clear stuff on them. What do you call that?"
"Nail polish."
"I know, I know. I mean, what color is it?"
"Rosy Dawn. Look, what is this with my toes?"
"Rosy Dawn. That's kind of romantic. I would have thought it was just pink."
"Will you stop talking about my toes? What are you, weird or something?"
"No! Oh, boy, this whole conversation has gotten off the wrong foot. Wrong foot—ha! Get it? Foot, toes?"
"Ha ha."
"Just a little humor to lighten up the tense situation. I thought you'd appreciate a good joke."
"I do appreciate a good joke."
"I just thought it was too early in our relationship to make personal comments about how great you look in a bathing suit."
"Our relationship? What relationship?"
"The one we're going to have."
"Oh, really? Have you always been this sure of yourself?"
"Have you always been this sarcastic? Look, I just wanted—"
"And besides, toes are personal. Personal comments about toes are just as—as personal as comments about how I look in my bathing suit."
"Well, all right, do you want me to tell you how I think you look in your bathing suit?"
"No. I'm really not interested in your opinion of how I look in my bathing suit."
"Okay, then. How do I look in mine?"
"Wet."
"Picture me dry."
"Please. I already had a nightmare last night."
"That's not very nice."
"Look, I'm sorry, but you just walk up to me, drip on my feet, and start raving about my toes and have the gall to make this incredible assumption that I'm going to be