Are We On A Date?

Cute Friend Guy: I ask him to go to the movies with me. We’ve never hung out together, alone. But we’re friends. We both regularly hang out with members of the opposite sex, alone, as Just Friends. I have a crush on him, and am hoping it was more than that – but I’m not sure he is. So I figured I’d ask him to go to a movie with me (Just Friends go see movies together…it’s all about the deniability factor when faced with possible rejection). I was hoping it was a date. It undeniably was not. It was, however, excruciatingly awkward.

He is Hung Over. Don’t-get-off-the-couch-all-day-feeling-nauseous Hung Over. But he agrees to go (which means he really wants to, right?). We go to a 10 p.m. movie. So he is exhausted and Hung Over.

We meet a bookstore before the movie. He needs a cup of coffee. He looks like shit. He looks like he’s regretting having gotten off the couch. He’s wearing a rumpled shirt, hasn’t shaved, and has a knit cap on. Not in a fashion-statement kind of way. In an “I didn’t wash my hair” kind of way. We have nothing to talk about. So we wander aimlessly around the bookstore for 20 minutes. Not talking.

We make brief, stilted, uncomfortable conversation during the previews. I get the distinct impression that he's miserable. I chalk it up to Hung Over. A preview for He's Just Not That Into You comes on. “Have you read that book?” He asks me. Maybe I should have taken note of that subtle warning sign.

During the movie, my concentration is split between the screen and him. I sit there in the dark, sneaking side glances at him. Trying to figure out if he’s leaning toward me. Trying to figure out if he’s going to try to hold my hand. Or if he's going to indicate any interest in me at all. In any way.

I’m shifting in my seat, overly conscious of where my arm and hand are on the armrest. He’s slumped really far down in his seat, leaning away from me, arms crossed across his chest, legs splayed out in front of him. He barely moves during the entire movie. He might be sleeping. (I probably would have if I had been Hung Over.)

But I’m wired. I fidget in my seat like a 3-year-old. Crossing my legs. Uncrossing my legs. Sitting up straight. Slouching down. Tucking one leg under me. Leaning on the armrest. Pulling both knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them, hugging them to me. I’m not even sure he’s still breathing over there.

After the movie, we walk to the parking lot. He walks me to my car. He looks like he might throw up. And then pass out. When I ask him if he liked the movie, he grunts. When we get to my car, he gives me a wave and mumbles good night. He keeps walking. I sit in my car and light a cigarette, thinking “that was SO not a date.” And then immediately: “I hope he’s sitting in his truck thinking ‘What the fuck?’” Because I am.