
Calvin arrived at my house with his mother. He immediately told me how beautiful I looked, and held my hand. I'm not sure if he had been repeatedly wiping the condensation off icy bottles of root beer or what, but his hand was drenched in sweat. Not cool. But it being my first date, I went along with it.
At the show, Calvin was nothing but a gentleman. During one of the crazy breakdowns, he stood in front of me, and this giant hardcore dancer--who is now one of my best friends--kicked him right in the stomach. What is a girl to do? I tried to comfort Calvin, but he seemed pretty humiliated and slumped off into the corner, leaving me by myself in a crowded room filled with sweaty guys. Hot.

Then, he proceeded to sing a love song he wrote for me. It sounded like a parakeet colliding with brick wall. When I broke our next date, his mother showed up at my house and confronted my parents, asking what kind of daughter they raised.
Sometimes my friends will remind me of this night with Calvin, and I cringe, thinking of the cute outfit I wasted on him. I haven't dated a nice guy since. Or gone to church. And I've never looked back.
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