“Do you have a favorite accent?” a friend recently asked. As I took a moment to chew the cud, she responded, “Spanish. Definitely.”
“Like who?”
“Antonio or Enrique. Latin men are controlling, which is ridiculously sexy.” I cannot help, at this moment, to think of a matador of a man in a red button-down shirt, leading his lady across a mirrored dance studio, unfurling her as if he’s through, only to snap her back to him, commanding their next purposeful step. “I just can’t date them. Way too many of them worried so much about how they appeared to the world, instead of how they appeared to me.”
“Yeah, that’s not so much a Latin thing," I assured her. "It’s a coward thing.”
“No, it’s a Latin thing, trust me. I’ve dated enough of them. There are exceptions to any rule, of course, but–”
“Damn, if only the Wasband spoke with a Spanish accent, I would have been so far ahead of the game.”
“What’s your fav?”
“If only character came with an accent. It’d be the ultimate relationship resume and a great tell."
"…"
"Oh, all right. British. Men or women. I’d take either. Anything out of their mouth sounds brilliant. They could ask for a napkin, and I’d want to make out on the spot.”