My face burns. He’s smiling. Is he an asshole? Is he teasing me? Are those different? “My hands are numb. And I do need help up.” He comes around, 6’3” and silly, a 72% match, a Virgo in a big black truck and gray hoodie. I’m helped in, like I’ve been on every other date I’ve ever been on. He’s chatty when he wants to be. “Never understood the whole chivalry thing,” he muses, backing into a parking space. “I mean, what’s in it for me?” “Hanging out with me,” I reply, snippy and unconcerned. We’re at the Square. The bus stop isn’t far, and having to dodge all the other couples will keep me from looking back at him. We get out of the car. He keeps my hand in his, awkwardly, like a diplomat escorting a princess. I go to kiss him. He leans in but he doesn’t turn. I smudge my good-luck gloss onto his collar. “I’m not a big kisser,” he says. “Why?” I whine, cause I’m an awful person. “Why do you care? We’re not a couple.” “We have to be a couple to kiss?” Three short men in suits go into single file to pass us on the sidewalk. The wall of the Contemporary Arts Center curves upward, bouncing yellow light onto his face. He kisses me. Damn, he kisses me. “You were trying to make me forget my point,” he said, nose to nose. My toes hurt but I can’t back down. I pay for the ice cream, like every other date I’ve been on. We talk about art. I kiss his neck some more. I delete his number, but I still remember it.