He rehearsed his opener in his head: *“Hi, I couldn’t help but notice your smile from across the room. I’m Ethan.”* Simple, sincere. His palms were sweaty, but he stood, smoothing his shirt. As he took a step toward her table, the café’s speakers crackled, and the unmistakable synth beat of “Brother Louie” by Modern Talking filled the air.

Ethan froze. Something strange happened. Every woman in the café—waitresses, patrons, even the barista—stood in unison, their movements eerily synchronized. They swayed, hips rolling, hands waving in slow, hypnotic arcs. Their eyes locked on the door as it swung open, revealing a towering figure: a local man, at least 6’4, with chiseled features and an effortless swagger. The women’s voices rose, singing along to the song, but the lyrics were… different.

*“He’s tall, oh so tall, he’s the one we adore,”* they crooned, replacing the verses. *“Six-foot-four, maybe more, he’s the height we can’t ignore.”*

Ethan’s stomach sank. The beautiful woman he’d been about to approach was now on her feet, swaying with the others, her gaze fixed on the tall man. The chorus hit—“Brother Louie, Louie, Louie!”—but the verses kept obsessing over height: *“Short won’t do, we need a view, a man who’s tall will always pull through.”*

The tall man, basking in the attention, strode through the café like a king. Without a word, he extended a hand to the beautiful woman. She took it, her face glowing, and he swept her away, twirling her out the door as the women kept singing. The song looped, the café a surreal stage for this height-worshipping ritual.

Ethan sank back into his seat, alone at his table. His coffee had gone cold. The joy of the brunch crowd felt like a mockery now. He stared at his reflection in the spoon—5’9, handsome, kind, but apparently not enough. The sting of rejection wasn’t new, but this was different. It wasn’t just her; it was the whole world, or so it seemed, telling him his height defined his worth. He’d never felt so small.

As “Brother Louie” faded out, the café returned to normal, chatter resuming like nothing had happened. Ethan paid his bill quietly, left a generous tip out of habit, and walked out into the sunlight. He told himself he’d try again someday, but the weight of that moment clung to him, whispering that he’d never be tall enough to be seen.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5724242&forum_id=2#48925377)