You might know that you like a boy because he comes to pick you up for your first real date in a 1980 blue Mercedes (powered by diesel). And he opens the door for you to get in. And that stupid little gesture makes you feel pretty special–because you already know you like him. And nobody’s ever opened a car door for you before.
And you go out to eat. And he talks. And you push food around on your plate and try to focus on what he’s saying. But all you notice the sound of his voice and the way that he talks.
And when you finally do try to take a bite to eat–you miss your mouth and the food falls back on the edge of the plate and almost on your lap–because you are already so nervous. So you just laugh and push the food around on you plate a bit more and try to think of something clever to say.
So you just smile. And nod. And try to ask intelligent questions. And inside, you’re completely mortified. Because you know you’re intelligent. And smart. And funny. And you have opinions. And normally–normally–you can’t shut up (which is why your nickname is Princess Donkey).
And you finish your dinner date. He drives you home in the tank-disguised-as-a-1980-blue-Mercedes-powered-by-diesel. And when you arrive at your house, you both just sit in the dark car and continue talking for a bit.
And then you make out for a bit.
And that was somehow nice.
And the dark car made it safe.
And you finally say good night and go inside.
And you do your toiletries and get into bed and before you go to sleep, you think–you think you just might like that boy who had taken you out to dinner. And you might just decide to continue to put yourself out there and see what happens.