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I spent the better part of the year mooning over someone I thought I really liked. It was meant to be life-changing, destined to make me feel like Christmas wrapped in eighteen birthdays. I liked that it made me question the belief that I was long dead inside. But what was supposed to be an event of epic proportions, became the equivalent of God throwing the unbelievably bored a bone. And damn if I wasn’t a card-carrying member of the consistently disinterested and the perpetually worn out, because there I was out on a date with Mr. By-All-Accounts-Perfect, and I was bored out of my fucking skull.
What happened was this.
I got a call at exactly 5:32pm last Thursday. It was of course, him, the object of my misguided affections. He asked me if I could join him for coffee that night. And I said yes, following an instinct that was purely Pavlovian in nature. At 7:22pm I found myself waiting for him and my tea, which was too hot, by the way, and not at all calming. Something was very wrong, because that usually ignored area of my psyche, the one that rudely tells me to get a fucking clue was going haywire. 11 minutes later, I realized why.
Now normally, I’d be all shits and giggles when it came to him, but that night I was Pompom Bennet Season 3, a Heroes reference he probably wouldn’t be familiar with. He was cute as per usual, but I wasn’t reacting to anything he was doing or saying, not even when he made that Star Trek joke that usually pushed all my giddy schoolgirl buttons. That got me panicky and sufficiently disturbed because I knew myself to be a relationship camel, loving or liking someone for years and years, regardless of feelings being returned or not. This had to be a fluke, I thought. He was still him and I was still me. There was no reason for the attraction to suddenly off itself. But off itself, it did. In fact, he lost me the minute he said hi and placed his stuff next to my shit.
A/N: Part 1 of ?; will continue depending on reviews...
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