Eighteen years old. St. George, Utah. First date of my college career.

The guy was a preemie leaving on his mission in a couple weeks. Apparently, he was DESPERATE for a kiss before he left.

I spent the evening frantically dodging his attempts to put his arm around me, hold my hand, or...worse. It was a first date, I wasn't an experienced dater, and he was a bit too eager.

I thought the last straw was when he drove us up to the local make-out spot. I may have been new in town, but I knew exactly where we were. I sat scrunched up against my car door observing his awkward attempts at "moving closer" until I finally informed him it was time to take me home.

I had a headache, you see. That's believable, right?

But then, on the front steps, after my quick, obligatory hug and a lunge to open the door, he asked:
"Do you wanna kiss?"
I stopped and stared at him in shock for half a second before responding with thinly veiled annoyance, "No."

What happened next will forever blow my mind. It was so sad. So pathetic. Piteous, even.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a zip-lock baggy. Holding it up for me to see, I caught sight of foil wrapped Hershey's kisses in the yellow glow of the porch light.

I wish I could have seen my expression at that moment. It must have been something between a frozen forced smile and pure disgust. "He...he...he...that was...clever," I faltered as I accepted his offering of a chocolate kiss.

But after such a desperate display, I didn't feel bad for not inviting him in, as his hopeful face peered in at my roommate sitting on the couch. I didn't care as I said goodnight, closing the door an inch from his nose. And I didn't even feel bad as my shocked roommate mildly censured me for my rudeness.

It wasn't until after I got over my nausea that I was able to recognize the bright side to the situation: It makes for a funny memory, right?

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