Dear Hot Spanish Chick at Work,
You can't even read this. It's perfectly fine though, because love is universal. You speak not a lick of English (well, I mean, you seem to know, like, ten words total), and yet, I am in love.
You see, it's always been a fantasy of mine to marry a Spanish chick. The idea of an angry Spanish chick yelling at me in Spanish while I haven't a single idea of what she's saying turns me on something serious. The idea of making sweet, sweet love to a hot Spanish chick while she talks dirty to me in Spanish (or clean, but clearly I wouldn't know the difference) blows my mind and drives me insane. I could go on, but I won't.
And it doesn't help that you are, in fact, really pretty. You have such lovely eyes, such a sweet, sweet smile, and ho, exotic looking skin. And your work clothes leave sooooo much to the imagination. Your black pants are tight enough to demonstrate slender legs, but kinda hide the true definition of their shape. The cook shirt is worn much too high up top and just too low down low and just too loose to see what you're really working with. And fuck that gotdamn apron, too.
It's funny, because everything about the situation is an easy target for disrespectful jokes of all kinds, but I ain't even trying to joke here. You provide a fantasy, and the complete situation merely enhances it. If only I were crazy enough to try make it happen.
All well... a man can still dream... and I'm still working on someone else, anyway... but still, I will remain your secret admirer that's hiding from you in plain sight simply because we speak two different languages.