Illustration by Bob AulI appreciate your kindness—telling me what a sweet guy I am, that I'm attractive physically, emotionally and mentally. So it might take some explaining to understand why I called you a "rich bitch." See, I know what really bothered you was that I'm working-class. I saw it in your bemused expression every time I mentioned I've never traveled much; I heard it when you flippantly remarked that my insistence on getting to know you before fucking you was antiquated, even hick. And, yeah, I got the message when you mentioned that your ex frequently took you to the opera as a not-so-subtle dig at the fact that all I could afford was sandwiches at the Hollywood Bowl. But we play the hand we were dealt: my parents never attended high school, while yours are college grads; you've never worked a job, while I've worked full-time while attending school since 17; my parents count on my paycheck, while your parents have set you up in a two-bedroom apartment in the fashionable side of town. I can't offer you money—not yet, anyhow—just my heart, and you turned that down as if it were a dot-com stock.
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