Saturday on South Beach

My friend Mariah was dropping me off. She pulled the car over by my house when we both caught sight of a well-figured female in a spectacular white tennis outfit. We were both gushing over the tennis outfit, how cute it was, how we could never pull it off, when the woman and her boyfriend saw us staring at them. Embarrassed, we looked away, but the boyfriend came over to the car as I was getting out.
“How are you?” he asked, with a British accent. He had gelled hair and wore one of those shirts of light cotton embroidered with flowers, a popular item with a certain kind of man on the Beach.
I was confused.
“I haven’t seen you in such a great while!” he proclaimed, like, starry-eyed.
“I don’t think I know you,” I ventured carefully.
“Ah…” he replied, suddenly straight-faced. “I don’t know you either, but you were looking at me like we should know each other.”
“No,” I said. “We just like your girlfriend’s shorts.”
“Oh never mind,” he huffed, and walked away.