Why you never date a friend.
Sometime after dating Max, in the summer of the twelfth grade, a good friend of mine (we’ll call him Scooter) invited me out on a date to go see a free metal show at Millenium Park.
I was ecstatic–Scooter too taught swimming lessons, he drove, and he had an older sister who bought us a mickey of white rum for the concert. We spent the day getting tipsy downtown, lost on the C-train, and laughing our asses off. When we parted ways at Dalhousie station, he grabbed me and gave me a kiss. Dizzy (I didn’t know whether to attibute it to the alcohol or to the kiss or to both), I stepped onto the 137 NW Loop and put in my iPod.
I soon got a text:
“So what does that make us?”
I replied:
“Whatever you want it to make us.” (ah, 17 year old Mel, you have so much to learn.)
We “dated” for a week (I think in that week, we saw one movie and had coffee twice), and then I got a text:
“Um..I don’t like you anymore. I suggest you move on, too.”
…needless to say, we haven’t spoken since.
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