I like you. You said you could fix my boots for thirty dollars. That seems a little steep, but really, I don't even mind so much because you smiled and looked glad to see me walking up to you in that dark old strip mall. And when you asked how to spell Angela you wrote it down all wrong, but I didn't even care because you and me man, we're surviving this suburban life despite our accents - yours on your lips, mine on my heart - and maybe we stick out like sore thumbs here, maybe we're all angles and awkwardness, and we smile and nod and curse the language that makes us sound like children to the natives, but hell, man, that ain't the whole of it at all. Wink, wink. Nod, nod.
Maybe some day you could teach me how to say hello, and how to swear, and how to say I like you. We could be adults to each other for an hour. That would be nice.
Dear Shoe Repair Man,
I like you.
I'll see you tomorrow.