11.26

I didn't quite pass out, of course. That would be silly. I didn't allow myself that luxury.
Ok, self.
Self.
Ok. Breathe, me. I can see me not breathing. Self, I have to make me breathe.
Gasp.
Good job, me. Again.
Hey, self. Am I going to get my skin eaten by Marco Who Speaks In Class? Is that my fate, me? Answer myself.



I looked back up at Marco. He still had the same look on his face. Two years of agony in my head pass in the space of two seconds for him.
Skin? How much do I value it, really? I don't need all of it. I've got so much extra.
I'm debating this, actually? Some guy I don't know? Some boy I've met twice? Do girls do this?
Why is everything phrased as a question? Here, let's try statements.

"You want to go on a date with me."
"That's not what I said."
"It's what you meant."
"I only meant date if you heard date."
"I heard date."
"We hear what we want to hear."

Ok. Established. It's a date.
Terrifying.
Here's what. That went well--the statements. Statements seem to clarify more than questions. The irony of that will hit me later. For now, I have no time.

"I don't know you."
"Are you assuming that I know you?"
"I'm assuming what I must."
"Well, you don't have to trust me. You don't have to say yes. As a matter of fact, you don't have to say no. You could walk away and say nothing to me ever again, but! You'd be missing out."
"You might eat my skin."

There. Now it was out there. Skin eating.

"I . . . what?"
"Yeah, Marco-if-that's-your-real-name. You're going to put me in an attic and slowly eat my skin."
"That's incredibly weird. I don't think I'd do that, ever."
"That's why I can't go on a date with a strange boy. He might eat my skin. I don't want a boy to eat my skin; I like my skin."
Here Marco paused. I think I stumped him. He finally returned a feeble "Alright," followed shortly by a more self-assured "Alright. Here's what we do then: if you can't date a strange boy, we must get to know each other. What do you say? Shall we exchange autobiographical accounts on Friday?"
It sounded like there would be less danger inherent in this plan. Unless, of course,
"I have to tell you everything?"
Marco laughed. "If you told me everything, it would take as long as you've been alive. Leave some out. I don't need to be an old man." He laughed again, with the abandon of a man who finds himself funny. He took a deep breath and asked "So, what do you say? Yes, or no?"
"Well, those are the common options. Yes or no? I think yes, but if you make me regret it, I swear I'll put a horse head in your sheets."
He smiled. Stupid boy making my insides wobble. Convincing me in an argument without rebuttal. Making me learn to be his friend. Who did he think he was?

Oh, yeah. He knew exactly who he was. He was the boy with enough confidence to say exactly what he wanted. He was the boy with a smile so intense it crinkled his eyes shut. He was the boy I stared at in class (just once or twice [maybe more. Who's keeping track?]).
I just hoped he didn't know who I was as well as he knew him. I would prefer he at least heard it from me first.

Self, am I completely screwed?
Would it help if I lied to me? Hm. I'll be fine. I'll be just fine.