So you found out I liked you. It was bound to happen sooner or later. I was bad at keeping secrets back then. You would overhear me mooning over you, or someone would mention it, or you'd catch me watching you from across the classroom, or you'd walk in on me furiously masturbating to a filched picture of you in the broom closet - Just kidding. Was it the boiler room or a broom closet? Oh well. The point is, you found out. And I had no shame. I didn't turn red or apologize or freeze up or run away. I just nodded and said, "Yeah. And?" And you bit your lower lip and asked me if I wanted to go out sometime - Just kidding. Where did we go? I think it was Olive Garden. Some pseudo-fancy place where the lower-middle class can pretend they're eating high-end stuff. And we did. It was great. Not the food. I mean, I liked the food, but it wasn't the highlight. It couldn't be, not with you sitting across the table, trying to pick the red peppers out of your food because you forgot to tell the waitress you didn't want any. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. When you asked if I wanted the peppers, all I could say was, "Only if you don't want them," and I had to say it twice because I was mumbling the first time. They really were delicious. Better than my food, and I don't even like red peppers either. I think it must have been because they came off of your plate. So we went to Olive Garden and I ate your peppers and then when we got the check I took your chocolates too (the little Andes mint chocolates, you know the ones) because you didn't feel like eating them and neither did I but you don't like wasting food so I tucked them in my jacket pocket and ate them later that night, while I was talking to you on the phone. They were good, too. I thought of you while I ate them. Well, I mean, I was on the phone with you, so of course I was thinking of you, but I thought of... well. I really like chocolate. And I really like you. You know? Well, I should say I really liked you, because I've kind of forgotten about you. Not completely, but mostly. I still remember that I had a crush on you in high school, and it never came to anything because I had no self-confidence and we moved in different circles and I never actually said anything but "hi" to you in all the time we were in high school. Then there's also the small fact that we both have dicks. I do remember that you were breathtakingly handsome. Still are, I'd bet, but I haven't bothered to look you up on Facebook or Myspace or whatever so I wouldn't know. I remember your first name, but I always have to think for a minute before I remember your last name, even though back then I always said them together, like one word. I remember you had a girlfriend. I remember not liking her, even though I didn't know anything at all about her and never met her and hardly knew what she looked like. I had a crush on you, and you were taken, and even though I had no intention of approaching you, the fact that you were taken was a nuisance. That's pretty much all I remember. I don't think about you much anymore. I had another crush after you. I actually, you know, met him. And I had a smaller crush after him, and a smaller one after him. I stopped having crushes after a while. Then I stopped having infatuations. Then I stopped having attractions. Then I stopped noticing the kinds of people who would have made my heart skip a beat two years ago. Now I don't even bat an eyelash when I see someone like... well, like you. Your name can pop up and remind me, and I won't even stop what I'm doing. I'll see a face, a hairstyle, an outfit that brings an old imaginary love to mind, and I'll just keep walking. That's all I do anymore, it seems. I just keep walking. And then every once in a while, I'll trip, and write a journal entry about it. Then I'll just keep walking. You know, for all that I used to think about you for hours on end, I don't think I ever learned your middle name. But your eyes were beautiful.