Really, though, how many nights did we actually have? One? Three? The memory plays tricks on my psyche. But the thing that S. Morgenstern wrote about in that famous book of his (now a major motion picture!): a kiss so innocent and true that it put all other kisses to shame: we had one of those…. Or maybe it was only one of us. Memory plays no tricks with that little prodding; I know I was in love in her general direction, but she… well, not so much back. Romeo and Juliet only really had the one good night, but the feeling they had was returned in kind. So I would have to divide any time I had with her in half, and really, keep dividing it in half until it approached zero. That’s what happens when you have the diminishing return of unrequitedness. But at the time, nothing mattered. I was on a cloud, with the whole world at my fingertips. Those few days were perhaps the happiest I’ve ever been.
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