10

Up until this point I have been using the ambiguous pronoun "he" to identify the subject of the vast majority of these posts. This perhaps indicates the irony of the break-up. But now I am about the entertain discussion of other individuals who would also fall under the pronoun heading of "he" but such ambiguity, though employed to conceal identity, would become too confusing. So, casual reader, bear with me while I attempt to create another system of naming. I will also cast aside the fact that the nature of this blog seems to revolve around the male sex, casting me in the part of self-absorbed romance blogger in manner of Carrie Bradshaw - something I cannot be proud of despite its veracity. But I digress. First I must name this new mysterious gentleman before I can commit him to these virtual pages for better or for worse.

In just a few months I have come to be aquatinted with a number of new young men to fill the void. There was "Never-Been-Kissed", "The Snapping Turtle", "The Brazilian", "The Freshman", "Michael Cera", among others. The one I will embark on discussion requires a name of his own but an appropriate one remains elusive. I was told by one of his friends that, with him, what you see is what you get. Perhaps this is true and yet I still find something enigmatic about him, one of his better qualities in my opinion. Technically, he would be called my classmate. I became infatuated with his forearms and the red piece of thread that clings delicately to his pale wrist. As the only male within a respectable age range coupled with his runway worthy good looks, it seemed like only a matter of time.

Who he is and what he does are not relevant for now. But right now, I am preoccupied with how he feels in two senses. The first is the classic sense of the term. I am interested in his thoughts and his emotions; both of which I am not given the privilege to know. The second, what he feels like to me. He feels like the cool senior in high school that noticed you after you grew breasts and took you to the backseat of his car for a test drive. And you, still too laden with pubescent lack of confidence to realize how you became worthy, find yourself staring at some innocuous detail in the car's interior thinking why you? Why now? How long will this last and how will this end? You know how the story usually ends and you begin to wait for the day to come when you climb out of the passenger seat with your hair all mussed, he gives you that last flash of a smile before you shut the door and watch the tail lights trail off into memory. If you know how the story ends then you think know how to write the plot when life inevitably creates its own and ruins everything but you cannot know that yet.

A new story has begun and our heroine is already in peril of infatuation.