We've already been on the perfect date. You and I. Only, you didn't know it was a date.
I went into the day hoping you'd give me a reason to stop loving you. You had her, and she makes you shine, and I love her for that. She is perfect for you. I told myself I can't love you. But you brought me sunscreen because you know me. You let me play my music, even though you don't like it. You talked to me like I was a real person, you listened like I had ideas. Like he never did. You made sure I was okay when you swerved after nearly missing the exit.
Do you like roller coasters? You had asked me, because she didn't, and you loved them. And I loved you, so of course I'd like roller coasters for you. You laughed at the top, the moment right before we went rushing towards the earth. I remember looking at you, your curly hair tousled by the wind. You looked so carefree on that July day, and for a moment I could almost pretend you were mine.
When little kids looked at you, you waved. You greeted every park employee with a smile. You held every door for anyone. You parked extra carefully, so no one would be blocked.
We spent thirteen hours alone together and never once was it boring. We talked about everything we could think of—politics, exes, family, work. We teased each other. We lamented the coming of the fall, how our time would be over, how far away our colleges were.
You asked me recently if I remembered that day, if I'd want to do it again sometime when we were home again. Of course, I told you. So, let's do it. Another perfect date that won't be a date.
