I dare you to move
My phone blips. Curious, I open it to see what text message awaits. It’s from G, the guy I’ve been sort-of seeing for about two months. I say “sort-of� loosely because every time we hang out, I seriously think that we’ve finally crossed the border into the point of no return. That is, the realm of being “just friends.�
Despite my convictions about most men not understanding what it really means to be “platonic,â€? I guess I just assume that because he doesn’t try to kiss me or even put his arm around me for that matter, I figure I’ve morphed into one of his buddies who just happens to have a vagina and somehow I’ve invariably become “one of the guys,â€?—a role to which I’m not unfamiliar. Maybe it’s just felt a little too inconsistent to be anything more than “friends.” It’s been two weeks since our last date and since then, we’ve hung out with his group of friends quite a bit…guys and girls.
Conversations include how he’s typecast me as “innocent Iowa girl,� how much he enjoys Honduras and his ardor for San Diego.
“Can I take you out to dinner this week?� …What? It’s Saturday night. He’s out of town—up north visiting friends at Cal Poly. He’s hasn’t been able to stop talking about how much fun he’s planned on having up there tonight. “Fun.� Whatever that is. Besides dancing after downing a carafe of sangria a couple of weeks ago, I don’t know that I’d categorize any of the times we’ve hung out as really being “fun.�
Honestly, I thought I’d be the last thing on his mind. If roles were reversed, he’d be the last thing on mine. Is that blunt? I guess internally I keep daring him to make a move. Maybe this is it…
November 13th, 2007 at 6:40 am
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