Icks: Mustache

My nerves spiral as my date arrives at my house. As I open the car door, a rancid smell comes from the boy sitting in the front seat. He blasts rock music, desperately trying to impress me, but sings every word incorrectly. We get food, and as he shoves a hot dog down his throat, I notice the pubescent mustache he’s trying to grow. He then chews with his mouth open, bits of meat spewing from his lips. Later while we shop, he runs up the stairs on all fours. Then, he decides he wants new sneakers. When he tries them on, he skips up and down the aisle. My breaking point occurs when he asks me to feel the fit of his toe in the shoe. I internally gag at what I’m seeing, losing any hope I had that things would turn around.