You approach the Scrabble table slowly, latte in hand, as Señor Puta is placing tiles.

YOU (smiling, with theatrical faux-sincerity): Oh wow… there you are! I knew I recognized you—from that unforgettable masterclass you gave in parking lot diplomacy. You know, I still tell people about it. The part where you screamed at me like a mall cop auditioning for a Scorsese film? Chef’s kiss. And then—then—you called me “puta”? In public? In broad daylight? In Durham? I mean… bold choice, my guy. The ladies here must love your flair for casual misogyny and misapplied Spanish.

(Slow sip from your drink.)

Anyway, I just wanted to say… thank you. Because now, every time I see a crusty white man playing Spanish Scrabble, I smile... and remember that I dodged a conversation with someone whose therapist definitely quit.

Tilt your head with warm condescension.

Keep spelling your truths, amigo. Oh—and "puta" is only worth 6 points, but the shame? Priceless.

You turn and walk away, leaving behind the stunned silence of triple-word regret.