“You are a writer,” he said, looking at me straight in the eyes.
I squinted. “Yes,” I replied, quite unsure what he meant, “you have known that for a long time now.”
“Yeah,” he smiled, “I have, and it just sank in, actually.”
“I don’t get it,” I laughed.
He became quiet for a few moments. “You see,” he started off, “I really wanna date you, I do, but I am scared.”
I smirked, heartily. “You’re scared?” I asked, quite incredulous. “Scared of what?”
“You,” he said.
“Why are you scared of me?”
He smiled, “You’re a writer.”
“I am not sure I follow,” I said, “I am so sorry,” I continued laughing.
He laughed with me, “If there is a thing or two I know about writers, it’s the fact that they describe people really well, however subjective.”
“Hey,” I protested, “that’s not a fair thing to say—we describe people accurately!”
He chuckled as he put a chunk of cookie into his mouth. “But that’s true, isn’t it?”
I smiled remorsefully. “I refuse to answer that.”
“But that’s true,” he smiled back. “I am scared that one day, I might screw up and you’ll end up writing about me.”
“So you’re not scared me,” I corrected. “You’re scared of what I might write about you.”
“No, it’s not that,” he reasoned, “I am scared of you writing about me because I screwed up.”
“I don’t get it.”
He sighed. “Let’s make this short: I am scared that I might just screw up, and you will write about it. Look, I am not scared about what you will write. I am scared that you will write about me because I screwed up.”
I shook my head, “Still not getting it.”
He laughed, “I know that was a horrible explanation.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Well, let’s see,” he started off, trying to gather his thoughts. “It’s like this: you writing about me is a sign that I screwed up, and that’s what I am scared of—not the ‘you will write about me because I screwed up’ kind of fear, you know. I do not expect you to be a Taylor.”
I laughed at the reference. “Listen, Mister,” I said, holding his hands, “I can write about you even when you do not screw up.”
He looked confused. “Which means?”
I shrugged. “I can tell the world how awful of a cook you are, how you do not understand my puns, how you do not like cats, how arrogant you are sometimes, how caring you can be, and the list can go on.”
He shook his head. “That’s a ruse.”
“Keep thinking that,” I smiled, sipping my coffee.
He looked at me in the eye and sipped his coffee, “You’re horrible.”
I nodded in agreement as I started writing about him.