Plus, guys get sweaty when they run, which is always nice to fulfill the subjective, perverted, sexual beauty portion of the attraction.
Kyle does not sweat. Kyle runs the same way a freight train makes its inaugural voyage from San Francisco to Honolulu. It’s not a pretty sight when she’s running away from me, and I can only imagine that it is positively terrifying to Hood-E-Scuz when he sees about one hundred seventy pounds of pissed-off mother-hen hacker coming at him. So when she trips over her flip-flop and smacks face-first into the tile floor, our new special friend initially doesn’t have an idea what to do. The laughter of the other patrons in line distracts him, and he looks frantically from side to side.
I spy the notebook sticking out of the front pocket of his sweatshirt. “Nice shirt,” I say. “Nice notebook, too.”
Hood-E-Scuz doesn’t respond. He’s still watching Kyle pick herself slowly up off the floor, and he runs his hand through his blonde crew cut. It’s slick when he pulls it off his head– he’s sweating buckets. Serves him right for wearing a sweatshirt in August.
“Eyes up here, slimeball!” I shout. “That’s my notebook, and you’re gonna hand it over real slow now.”
“Hey, you can’t do…” he starts lamely.