This piece was originally published on my Medium.

A: We shared a mutual distaste for ketchup. What a perfectly needless way to ruin a wonderful omelette, or burger, or (if you’re the senile landlord) french dip! Her (only slightly) muted grimace at the brazen request of a pimple-faced server (“Ketchup with your fries, ma’am?”) made me fall half in love with her.

Behavioral psychology might attribute our romance to some sort of clinical inevitability. What else is an Eternally Naive Feeling Personality to do but fall in love with the first ketchup-hater he meets?

Too many swipe-lefts; my thumbs are weaker than my heart. I’ve never been there before, but I hear Lyon is (dreadfully) bursting with ketchup-haters galore. Maybe the wind will take me there someday.

Her hair is like lightning on a sunny day, and I’m a cloud. Sometimes I think I’ve died, and she’s a dutiful angel escorting me to the Place Where Dumb Romantics Go. I sleep too peacefully in a spoon.

Truth be told, she wasn’t the first ketchup-hater to steal my cheap love. It’s so easy to find love in the city!

B: Ummmm … why is that guy looking at me?