Don't look at me like that. You know very well he's not going to call. I know very well he's not going to call. So, fine, he asked interesting questions, and I gave interesting answers. And then I asked interesting questions, and he gave freaking fantastic answers. He was compelling. His words were picked for quality, lovely and charmingly grandiose. I'm not anything if not a sucker for the charmingly grandiose. And he wasn't a low-speaker! I suppose you could say I want him to call because he said that I was delicious. I suppose you could say I want him to call because he knows how to lay down a hell of a smacker. (Seriously, that was one of the better kisses I've had this year.) And you know, you'd be right. Not all right. Not even half right. But you'd be a little bit right on both counts. Mostly though, I want him to call because he was just so damn freaking cool! Like, witty and clever and - DAMMIT! He's not going to call.
Ah, screw it. At least I'm going to London on Thursday. By the time I come back, Boy Time will be over and I can stop worrying about it.
Oh, you want me to call? How can I call knowing that he won't call and even if I do call what if he doesn't call back and really do I want to put myself out there for someone who doesn't want me to call him and what if he does call only to say screw you betty sue and God I hate boys so very much and
I'm gonna call.
No I'm not.
Yes, I am.
Right. I'll let you know.
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