I don’t mean to alarm you, or your big, handsome husbands, but it feels good to finally be able to say this: Yes, I am in love with you. All of you. All those times you thought I was signaling my emotions to you in code … you were right. I just wasn’t brave enough to tell you with direct words.
The time I Instagrammed a selfie of me and my girlfriend, just a couple of out-out lesbians. That was a love note for you.
That time somebody stole a burrito from the shared fridge. It was me. Burrito buyer, will you marry me?
When I finished the pot of coffee in the kitchen and I didn’t make a fresh one, so when you went to fill up your cup there was nothing for you to drink. Just my little way of telling you I want to fuck you sideways.
When I replied to your email by using 17 exclamation points so you wouldn’t think I was being passive-aggressive. That punctuation was me saying, “Take me now, sailor.”
That time we were standing in that stuck elevator and I muttered, to no one in particular, “These elevators suck.” I was flirting.
When I emailed you saying I just didn’t have the bandwidth to help this week. That was me choosing you as my handler.
The day it was approximately 7,000 degrees in Manhattan and I wore a sundress to the office. That was just for you.
All my love,
PS: My daily leg showing will be happening this afternoon at 3 p.m. Please Slack me for the details. I’m still trying to book a conference room since I know a bunch of you want to come.