It’s not very romantic, in that it takes forever.


I’m over at Katie Cassidy’s house, and there’s this other girl there who is suddenly very determined to press her knee into my thigh, ankles almost touching.


Oh, I think, staring down at her artfully-scuffed Mary Janes. Oh.


By the time we start talking, I’m dizzy with the feel of her skin, brushing against the fabric of my jeans. Honestly, medals should be passed out for smaller things, too. Look, Mr. Genius/Millionaire/President, I understand that you cured cancer/spent a lot of money on other people/sat through some really uninteresting UN meetings, but I was flirted with for 20 minutes straight and remained literate, doesn’t that deserve some recognition?


She doesn’t introduce herself, either. No vague statements or references to a tragic and sordid past made. No, she seems completely happy to let her knee dig into the side of my leg for eternity.


Thank god I’m easily bored and slightly dependent on attention. “Helen,” I say, sticking out my hand like we’re the heads of rival companies meeting at an awkward luncheon.


“Mac,” she replies, and we shake. Her palm feels good against mine, although I think I’m starting to sweat.


And then we talk, about the most boring things on the planet. How she knows Katie (summer camp), how I know Katie (school--I know, we’re so interesting), I make a few terrible jokes, she laughs, carefully detaches herself from my thigh (at this point I’m surprised we haven’t become one being), and leaves for the bathroom.


Christ, aren’t these things slow?


Of course, it takes two months for her to ask me out, all nervous and stuttering and sincere. And I can’t even make fun of her for that, because when I said yes I was all nervous and stuttering and sincere.


So it works out, I guess.