.... Love has been covered way too much for me to be able to do so. So, I'll keep this short. Once upon a time there was a 135 lbs., mostly Polish, slightly German, and slightly muscular boy named Conrad. I dated him for four months. I dated him because:
- His hair was blonde.
- His eyes were blue.
- He liked to cook.
- He liked to watch noir films.
- He liked to read.
- He was smart.
- Smart enough to enroll and be accepted into the University of Washington by his Sophomore Year of High School.
- We both liked Death Cab For Cutie.
- He was very nice to me.
Then, I stopped liking him because:
- He didn't call me. Ever.
- He was no longer very nice to me.
- He wasn't emotionally mature enough to sustain a romantic relationship on more than hormonal and chemical activity, and the sheer novelty of "us".
- He was bored, but not nearly as bored as I was.
He called on June 2nd, around 5:30pm, in response to 10 phone calls I had sent his way, desperately, in the course of one day, trying to get an answer to the dinner invitation my family and I had sent him, before they made plans without him. He said he was available for one hour. To talk about "us". He mentioned the following things.
- Was unsure
- Not enough energy for relationship
- Something about a "Spark"
- Something about "clicking"
I proceeded to cry a little, and stuttering like a fool, told him I would call him back. I didn't. This ought to be mentioned:
- They were tears of happiness.
And that's all I have to say about that.
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