I came home and there was the wedding invitation lying on the kitchen table, addressed to my roommate.
The picture is adorable. He's tall and lean and blond, with a button-down and a Crest smile. She's tall and lean and brunette, in a crisp white shirt and a grey cardigan, her smile equally fresh. They could have been clipped from a magazine.
He asked me out once, I think, or tried to. I was pretty excited about that.
I bet you have a story to tell was the sentence that sprang to mind when I first met him -- a rare reaction for me. He'd lived for two years in rural Russia; I made him talk to me about it. And then, weeks later, there was this Facebook message. He wanted to know if I'd be up for "grabbing a pastry or a salad or an ice cream - it's really quite arbitrary - and talking literature sometime."
I said yes. Then never heard from him again. It may have had something to do with the fact that one of his best friends had asked me out the week before.
The best friend became a story in his own right, one I wouldn't trade. But I've always been secretly disappointed about that ice cream that went uneaten, that literary conversation that never happened.
And now here we are. No more what-ifs or maybe-one-days. He is officially and permanently off the market.
Another one bites the dust.
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