Pablo had really put in the effort, che. Seriously. This time he wasn’t gonna mess it up like the other day. No more piropos that sound like they came from a guy yelling on the corner with a beer in hand. No. This time he was gonna be un tipo bien. A proper gentleman.

"A formal date," he muttered at the mirror, fixing the collar of his slightly wrinkled white shirt. “Like I'm someone who knows what he's doing.”

He'd booked a spot in a fancy little café in Omotesando—full-on hipster but classy, y'know? Dried flowers everywhere, music like from a French film, waiters walking around like they’d swallowed a broomstick. The kind of place where the food looked more like decoration than food.

He got there ten minutes early. Gel in his hair, shirt tucked in, even wore the stupid loafers that gave him blisters. And when he saw him walk in—that same boy with his pastel vibes, shiny lips and a little bear purse—Pablo’s heart went bam-bam like a cumbia drum.

He stood up, all formal. “Thanks for comin’, loco. Really. I was a boludo last time. This... this is me tryin’ to make things right.”

The boy sat down, nodded, ordered a matcha latte with oat milk or some trendy thing like that. Pablo smiled. So far, so good.

He kept it together, biting his tongue every time a cheeky comment tried to escape. He talked about neutral stuff—like the weather, the café decor, how Tokyo trains are hell during rush hour. Not once did he say anything about legs, hips, or lips. Un récord mundial, really.

Then the dessert came. Lavender ice cream with flowers on top. All pretty.

And that’s when it slipped.

“Look at that, loco. A garden stuffed into a scoop of cream. Though honestly… Although, if you give me a choice, I'd rather get lost between your legs than in a field of flowers.”

Silence. The boy blinked.

Pablo’s soul left his body.

“¡No, no, pará! That came out wrong, I swear. I didn’t mean it like that—well, maybe a little—pero posta, I’m tryin’, eh. It’s just… you show up and my brain goes blank. You’re all delicate and sweet and I’m a disaster with feet. My mouth works before my head.”

The check came early. The waiter could smell the awkward.

Pablo paid the whole thing, left a tip big enough to feed a family. They walked out in silence, side by side.

At the corner, before parting ways, he gave it one last shot:

“I know I’m not what you’re lookin’ for. But if you give me una más, I swear I’ll put a zipper on my mouth. Cross my heart, loco. I’ll sew it shut if I have to. Or you can do it—I won’t even complain.”