Dear guy across from me:
There are seven open tables inside this coffee shop, but you chose to sit right across from me. And now you’re talking to yourself as you write.
I don’t get it. Why did you choose this area to sit? It can’t be because of me. I’m gross and smelly and something of a cafe slob. Truly, I’m baffled. There were all these spots. And you’re grunting. Sorta loudly.
If I get up and relocate, will you be offended? Will you even take notice? I feel oddly guilty about this, because you don’t seem particularly bad or harmful. So what am I supposed to do here, as you sip from your small cup of coffee? Because this relationship—it’s not working out. Like, at all.
OK, I’m getting up to leave.
It’s not you, it’s me.