by David Morgan
They walked along a path that traced the lake’s shoreline, Paxton with his hands in his pockets, wondering and worrying about when the topics of conversation would run out—or in this case, when they would begin, and what they might talk about, and whether or not she liked him as just a friend or not.
He’d been let down before—invited girls to ‘hang out’, ready to pick them up, ready to treat them to dinner or coffee or ice cream, perpetually guessing whether or not her gestures were motivated by courtesy or attraction.
He would harbor his crushes, ignoring any indication that she might not be interested while nurturing the slightest common courtesies until they grew in his mind into undeniable signs of attraction.
