No, not my dad. That would be weird. I mean the Dad. The archetype. Specifically, the version of him I’ve been watching over my morning coffee for the last six months.
Here is why I am utterly, irrevocably smitten:
It’s patience.
He doesn’t know I exist. He’s too busy pushing a reluctant three-year-old on the squeaky red swing. He’s wearing the uniform of the species: faded band t-shirt (Nirvana, always Nirvana), cargo shorts with too many pockets, and New Balance sneakers that have seen better grass stains.
Let me set the scene. Every Tuesday and Thursday, I take my toddler to the same indoor playground. It smells faintly of stale coffee and sweaty socks. There’s a sad-looking rubber plant in the corner and a broken ball pit net that’s been “getting fixed” since March. 317. Dad Crush
I have a crush. A big one.
So, why am I writing this?
Romance is a man who knows where the spare diapers are. A crush is watching someone be kind when no one is watching (except for the creepy lady in the corner nursing a cold brew, i.e., me).