An Open Letter

Dear Mr. Mexican who Kills the Weeds in Front of My Apartment,

Don’t say lewd things to me. I don’t like it. It’s not a good way to start my day. I know I’m a rude, dumb American who never took the time to learn your language, but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand your tone. Or your eyes. Or that I don’t notice that you’ve stopped spraying your weed killer on the mulch to watch me try to find my obviously red car. Besides, you don’t want me. While you might believe so, you don’t even want my body. You were made for something significantly better and far more pleasing than my body. And I was made for something way better than your breathy Spanish lust. I was definitely made for something better because when I hear you speak like that as I walk by with my computer and my coffee, I feel for a moment like I could never be anything more than my body. But I’m far more than my body. And you’re far more than your dirty Spanish thoughts and your weed-killing job. Damn sin. And damn your dirty thoughts that keep you from being who you were created to be and make me forget who I'm created to be. So please, for so many reasons, stop it.

Sincerely,

mel