Sarah: May 1, 2013
At the poetry reading, Jackson put his arm around the back of my chair and whispered in my ear a few times. He was really polite and way more mindful of my personal space than most guys, which I liked. I kept waiting for the butterflies in my stomach to start flapping, but no electricity sparked with his touch. It’s not that he isn't good looking—he is, in an intellectual sort of way. It’s me. I think my butterflies have died. I haven’t felt them in a long time, at least not for a real guy.
When Jackson slipped his car into park by the curb in front of my house, I thanked him and told him I had a good time before quickly opening my door. As I stepped out, I turned and watched disappointment disfigure his face. I don’t think he expected to be dropped into the friend zone so quickly. How can I tell him it’s not you, it’s me, without it sounding like a bad movie?
“We should do this again sometime,” he said.
I just nodded and smiled. I know we won’t.
No comments:
Post a Comment