Sarah: April 29, 2013
I ran into Jackson Tripp in line at the coffee shop. We sat for a few minutes and chatted about the classes we have left to take before graduation. He’s an English major, as well, and we’re in American lit together this semester.
It surprised me when he asked me to go with him to the on-campus poetry reading that Professor Hamel is forcing on us. I didn't think Jackson knew who I was. He’s barely said two words to me before today, but his eyes were all dark and flirty, so I’m pretty sure he didn't mean just as friends.
Jackson seemed too excited about the reading. Am I the only English major who loathes poetry readings? I like poetry—the kind found in the lyrics of songs and the words strung together in unexpected places, like a Jesse Eisenberg movie, but readings seem so coerced that I can’t stomach them. I agreed to go with Jackson, though, and I know why. I need to pull myself back into the real world and stop the constant fantasizing about the Internet guy. Will is not tangible.
I gave Jackson my number and agreed to let him pick me up. He seems harmless and I could see dating him—maybe, I don’t know. My last meaningful relationship was back in high school and that ended up being a lie. You would think that with all the psychology classes I've taken, I would have figured out how to trust the male species again, but I haven’t.
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