I don’t think he was even aware of what he was doing to me. He’d give me that look, that same look that he had been giving me all night, and it would get me wondering. Was that the look, the fabled one of which I had heard so much? There weren’t any butterflies or trumpets, but there was definitely something. A prickle of awareness that I could place at a specific location.

It wasn’t until much later when I left him at the doors of his building that I started to think that maybe that look just meant he thought I was strange, or maybe he just had gas.

The tables got turned on me pretty quickly, I was hoping for a kiss goodnight or at the very least a hug, not a small conversation about his girlfriend from the Internet and just exactly how much he’s seen of her. How much she’s seen of him.

So I come home and I sit, and I think about snowball fights from years ago and jokingly intimate touches. I wonder what he thinks about me, if he ever bothers to think of me at all, and I wish I could read his mind.