She's still out there, reaching into guys' chests, pulling out their hearts, and sacrificing the hearts to Kali in the Temple of Doom, so I'll use a pseudonym. Let's call her Delilah.
Delilah was a girl I’d had a crush on since fifth grade, since I was barely old enough to understand the fundamental differences between girls and boys. I pursued her with limited success through middle school and junior high and finally into high school. We went on a slew of dates during high school, but I never could tame the beast within; at least, that’s what I told myself to bandage the fact that she was never really into me.
When high school ended and we tossed our graduation caps in the air, she suddenly seemed interested. Or perhaps my hormones completely distorted my perception of the situation. I guess it doesn’t matter now. She was the one of the last of my friends that I said goodbye to, with a chaste little kiss on the cheek. I had high hopes for our relationship after my mission.
Thinking now about my naivete then makes me want to invent a time machine, go back to the early 2000s, and tell my past self to give it up. (Then, taking advantage of circumstances, I would probably also tell my past self to invent Facebook.)
Using that time machine, let's speed up to a month after I got home from my mission. I brushed my teeth twice. I sprayed on two kinds of deodorant, then worried that their smells would conflict so I sprayed another scent on to cover the first two. I read over her letters from the past two years in an attempt to predict what she would say and prepare appropriate responses. The last few dates had left me confused as to her perception of our relationship, so I was prepared to spring the trap and ask her if she wanted to, I dunno, go steady. Fulfill her destiny. Find the answers to two years' worth of guessing. Realize all my adolescent and mission-age dreams. My fantasies ran rampant; I even had our kids' names picked out.
Three hours later, we were in the car.
"I like you, Deliliah," I said. This may not have been the most logical point in the conversation to inject that particular confession; a few moments earlier we had been talking about our favorite breeds of dogs. I hate dogs.
"Yeah?" she said.
"Yeah," I said.
The night passed in silence for a few moments. Static electricity seemed to build up in the car. Outside, perhaps small animals darted for cover.
"Good," she said, staring straight ahead.
"Do you want to, you know, keep dating?" I asked.
Delilah sighed. "Ryan, I sort of think of you as a friend."
I looked down at my right hand, which was holding her left, and processed this new information. My heart may have stopped beating.
"Yeah?" I managed. "Huh."
"Yup," she said. Instead of the calm voice she used to convey the message, her tone would have been more appropriate if it had been the cackling laugh of an evil genius announcing that he had just destroyed New York with a giant freeze ray.
I must have taken her home after that, and I must have gotten home safely, but the post-traumatic stress syndrome erased most of it from my mind. To this day, whenever I hear a voice that sounds like hers, I duck and cover.
It turned out all right in the end, though. She gained a bunch of weight. I really dodged a bullet there.
Delilah was a girl I’d had a crush on since fifth grade, since I was barely old enough to understand the fundamental differences between girls and boys. I pursued her with limited success through middle school and junior high and finally into high school. We went on a slew of dates during high school, but I never could tame the beast within; at least, that’s what I told myself to bandage the fact that she was never really into me.
When high school ended and we tossed our graduation caps in the air, she suddenly seemed interested. Or perhaps my hormones completely distorted my perception of the situation. I guess it doesn’t matter now. She was the one of the last of my friends that I said goodbye to, with a chaste little kiss on the cheek. I had high hopes for our relationship after my mission.
Thinking now about my naivete then makes me want to invent a time machine, go back to the early 2000s, and tell my past self to give it up. (Then, taking advantage of circumstances, I would probably also tell my past self to invent Facebook.)
Using that time machine, let's speed up to a month after I got home from my mission. I brushed my teeth twice. I sprayed on two kinds of deodorant, then worried that their smells would conflict so I sprayed another scent on to cover the first two. I read over her letters from the past two years in an attempt to predict what she would say and prepare appropriate responses. The last few dates had left me confused as to her perception of our relationship, so I was prepared to spring the trap and ask her if she wanted to, I dunno, go steady. Fulfill her destiny. Find the answers to two years' worth of guessing. Realize all my adolescent and mission-age dreams. My fantasies ran rampant; I even had our kids' names picked out.
Three hours later, we were in the car.
"I like you, Deliliah," I said. This may not have been the most logical point in the conversation to inject that particular confession; a few moments earlier we had been talking about our favorite breeds of dogs. I hate dogs.
"Yeah?" she said.
"Yeah," I said.
The night passed in silence for a few moments. Static electricity seemed to build up in the car. Outside, perhaps small animals darted for cover.
"Good," she said, staring straight ahead.
"Do you want to, you know, keep dating?" I asked.
Delilah sighed. "Ryan, I sort of think of you as a friend."
I looked down at my right hand, which was holding her left, and processed this new information. My heart may have stopped beating.
"Yeah?" I managed. "Huh."
"Yup," she said. Instead of the calm voice she used to convey the message, her tone would have been more appropriate if it had been the cackling laugh of an evil genius announcing that he had just destroyed New York with a giant freeze ray.
I must have taken her home after that, and I must have gotten home safely, but the post-traumatic stress syndrome erased most of it from my mind. To this day, whenever I hear a voice that sounds like hers, I duck and cover.
It turned out all right in the end, though. She gained a bunch of weight. I really dodged a bullet there.
I cannot believe that last line.
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