Dear young man,

I know you like me. I notice the way you look at me when I come in, the way your heavy eyelids raise to reveal the light in your blue blue eyes, and how they send sparkles my way. You must know you are much much too young for me. Still, I am flattered because I see the gentle intelligence inside you.

When you smile at me, I think it sad that you don’t believe in yourself more. It’s evident in the way you dress, that ridiculous hat worn sideways, the tattoes on your arms, the sloppy clothes.

You deserve more than this night job, and somewhere inside you lives that spark. Get out of here. Take off that silly hat, comb your hair, take classes, and make yourself who you were born to be. More than this. More than shy smiles offered to the woman 10 years older than you. You deserve a young woman who will love you sweetly, and who knows how to receive all that light in your eyes.

Don’t smile at me with that feeble hope. Take that hope and polish it, make it burn, and then swallow it so that it sets fire to your belly, spreads to your limbs and moves you. Get out of here while you still can.

The next time I walk in here late at night, a small stop on my journey home, I don’t want to see you. I want to look up and see instead a young boy with transluscent flesh and dull eyes. I want to wonder if you read this, and took my advice. I want to think of you building, block by block, the life that you deserve.

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