The sweet, distant boy I liked in college picked me up for a movie in his 1980s BMW, and we sat in the dark, warm theater. My hands were sweating profusely.
It was one of those cold Montana nights that get dark at 4 p.m. I was too young to drink, so after the movie ended, we went back to the coffee shop where I worked. He sat across from me, casually sipping black coffee, and I very casually with no anxiety tremors at all also sipped on my coffee (also black).
We discussed the movie, a disappointing Christopher Guest flick (GUESS WHICH ONE), and our common points in music, and I was starting to feel pretty fucking confident. I had just cut my bangs. I was fucking killing it in my philosophy class. I was a hot catch.
Then he got in the car with me and asked if I liked Daniel Johnston.