Not Her Type

“You’re handsome, just not my type.”

That is what she actually said to me. Does she know what that means? It is equivalent to my mom saying that I am handsome and that I will find a special someone for sure.  I know she was just trying to be nice, but please. Do I look like a little child? Do my feelings need protecting?

I smiled. “Thanks, Amy. You, on the other hand, are my type,” I could not stop myself from saying that, but I immediately felt like an idiot. What am I doing ingratiating myself to her like that? I had to save it quick by being unpleasant. “I think you are everyone’s type.”

She could have easily taken that last bit as an insult, the way I meant it. Everyone’s type, as in “you are a whore,” or some other male chauvinist crap like that. Very much unlike me to say a thing like that. I regretted having said it, it was a clear sign of strong emotions. Was I in love?

Luckily, she did not take it as an insult. Or at least did not let it show. She smiled fabulously and said goodbye. I was left alone in front of a romantic fountain, just standing there like an idiot.

But why like an idiot? I was just a human being standing by a fountain created by human beings in a human city on the only planet in the universe that had humans. I was right where I was supposed to be. And she never owed me anything. I was just a fool for falling in love.

Never say that men “just say things,” because when people speak, they also think and feel. A lot.

Posted by: Paweł Kowaluk