Yep, you’re too late.

Not that you were slow or anything. You caught it as soon as possible. Maybe quicker. Yet, here we are.

Here I am.

The whole restaurant glares as you fling your body away from the table like you’re protecting the commander-in-chief. But you’re not. You’re shielding a sweater. From your meal. As if it’s moments away from developing sentience and hurling itself at you. An ability food has never, and will never, possess.

You ignore the woman you’ve been pining after for a month-and-a-half—who you’ve finally duped into a date—and rush to the bathroom to wipe me off. Cue the audible panting as you dab me furiously with soap and water. Doesn’t matter at this point. You’re only feeding me.

I hate to say it (quite the opposite), but I’ve made myself at home. My feet are up on the proverbial furniture. I mean, let’s be real. I’d already set in before you could’ve done anything about me.

I always seem to.

And let’s stop acting like it’s the meal’s fault, alright? That’s what happens when you eat so… savagely. Is that, for real, how you hold a spoon? Even with an audience? Shame on your mother.

Also, what in the world possessed you to order Borscht in a white sweater? I hate to victim-blame (categorically false), but you’re almost asking for it. I always say, don’t flirt with danger, or danger might expect a little something more. On a first date, too? Your tongue will be purple after the second slurp. Think about it from her perspective, it’ll be like swapping saliva with a mutant.

FYI, just because you’re 3% Slavic doesn’t mean you have to order the borscht. It’s not even that interesting of an ice-breaker.

Back to the date. You try to “shake me off” (I don’t budge). Refocus. Play it cool. You’re NOT the kind of guy who can be driven into a psychosis over a pea-sized stain on your high-quality, specially imported, limited-run sweater that your favorite ex once described as “the only nice thing you owned.”

But I’ve wormed my way into your frighteningly fragile mind. You can’t stop staring at me. You loathe me. I can see it in your eyes. Maybe it’s because I’m still so bright on your crisp white sweater.

At least one of us is.

Now you’re staring at your date, trying to decipher if she’s weirded out because of the glaringly obvious stain on your sweater, because you freaked out so publicly when it happened, or because you haven’t blinked in what feels like 45 minutes. Either way, things have definitely soured.

You always used to make fun of people at restaurants who tucked napkins into their collars, calling them “big restaurant babies.” I hate to rub it in (again, simply not true), but I bet you wish you were a “big restaurant baby” now. A “big restaurant baby” with a clean cashmere sweater.

Oof. Now you’re pulling out a Tide Stick. On a first date. You just couldn’t help yourself, could ya? Real sexy. What’s next? Galoshes before we step outside?

You start smashing it into me. Hurting me. Like I asked to be born. Like I’m the one who willed myself into existence. Like the damage isn’t already done. You’re maniacal now. Rubbing the Tide Stick so hard against me, the plastic nozzle begins to scratch off my outer layer.

As if the bathroom waterboarding wasn’t torturous enough.

You look down. It’s not helping at all. In fact, you’re actually starting to widen me out. I’m immediately overcome with a crippling sense of dysmorphia, but I swallow it, because—unlike you—I have a rudimentary sense of control over my emotions. You know, the kind you’d develop before middle school.

The woman of your dreams gets up to leave. After months of pining and obsessing, you can’t seem to focus on her even briefly. You jolt out of your seat and try to convince her to stay, still staring at your sweater out of the corner of your eye.

Your date looks at you contemptuously. The center of your once pristine sweater is a mishmash of borscht, soap, and Tide stick, now resembling some sort of purplish cosmic void. To the layman, it would be shocking to learn that this sweater was, at one time, monochrome and not, in fact, some form of astronomy-themed apparel.

She doesn’t listen, because of course she doesn’t. She leaves, presumably to find someone more “chill” to settle down and start a life with. You stay to finish your borscht, wiping the corners of your mouth with the bottom of your already-ruined sweater. I’d like to think you did so to ensure I wouldn’t grow lonely, but I know better.

I can feel your ice-cold heart through your button-down.

On the walk home, you toss me—and the sweater gracious enough to host me—into a public garbage. Like we weren’t your favorite just a couple hours prior. Like it’s our fault you’re a loser invalid. Or that you have no success with women. Or that you eat dinner like a Neanderthal with developmental disabilities. Hipsters at Goodwill would be lining the block to “reclaim” us, but no, instead you’d rather toss us away like we’re noth–

You know what? It’s not even worth it. Enjoy shivering your way home, Casanova.

Next time, consider a bib.