"Your coat. It's still on."
"Oh." He shrugged. "I'm fine."
Well, sir, I'm not fine. I'm far from fucking fine. I catapulted past fine thirty minutes ago when he flopped into this dive bar to meet me for a drink. I kept waiting for him to take off his coat but I'm half-way done with this Mad Elf and his coat is still on his body. I think it might be a permanent part of our hangout tonight.
I tried to telepathically communicate my uneasiness with his coat sitch because he looks like a cartoon drawing of a grumpy tortoise but he had the audacity to ignore it! I can't even concentrate on what he's saying; I'm undressing him with my eyes but in a completely unsexy way. My skin felt itchy just hearing his coat rub against itself everytime he lifted the pint glass to his lips.
|Take it OFF! ("No." - him)|
And can we talk about this coat for a second? It's never a cool coat that he refuses to shed. It's not a camel-haired jawn from J. Crew or a navy peacoat that makes him look like a French dj; it's some blown-out, shit brown, hulking sack of a garment that smells like stress, stale cigarettes, and B.O. You think he'd want to ditch it ASAP instead of brandishing it all night like it's his family crest.
If he doesn't take it off by the second round of drinks, I might have to forcibly rip it off. It's nighttime during the winter: this is pretty much the easiest time of year for a fella to look foxy. Just wear a flannel shirt, a hoodie and don't shave for a minute. Let me marvel at your holiday chub and fantasize about laying on your belly while we watch TV. It's not that hard.