It’s supposed to be, “I love you, but I love me more,” but we weren’t there. We weren’t “In love.”
Hell, we weren’t even “in like.”
We were in the “you seem normal and nice and special and maybe I would ‘like” to hang out with you if we’re both free….let’s say on Tuesday?”
We were in that place that supposed to be the honeymoon of dating where you temporarily weeded out the losers and you found yourself knowing, actually knowing someone just enough to assume that he’ll call you again without the pressure of actually “being” something to him. How do you know he’ll call? In some weird way, you think (or know) he’s going to call, because the whole situation is so infrequently casual that you assume he’ll have time to date you in between whatever else or whomever else he’s “doing.”
He was nice in the boy next door kind of way (instead of the emotionally complicated that I frequently find myself overanalyzing with friends when they stop calling). Instead, he was simple and unambiguously kind – the type of guy who could be found fishing on a lake instead of going to some overpriced, bottomless mimosas kind of thing on a Sunday, as so many of us youthful, urban / suburban types “do.”
He didn’t pressure me to hang, he didn’t text me everyday, he simply popped his head up once in awhile when he thought he (or I) could use a break from the mundane to hang out for an hour or two.
Yet me, the non-committal, non-dating kind had a problem with that too.