There is a cookbook on the counter in my kitchen. It's a cookbook for cookies and the title is "Chewy Crunchy Cripsy something else  that starts with a C". I can't remember it word-for-word. Anyways, the title combined with the picture on the front cover is just mouth-watering. I mean, I just get the most satisfaction out of looking at it. And then I think: That must be how I feel about you. Because wouldn't that just be quaint? If I could compare you to the way a cookbook makes me feel all gooey inside! But no, that's not it. You're a much colder person than that.
 No, I mean, just a little icy.
Next to you I feel like a pink flustered scatter-brained blob. You are made of sharp angles, and you wear your shirts buttoned all the way to the top. Your hair is slicked back and your chin could probably stab someone. I like the way you look and the way you mutter things under your breath. I flash you smiles and you smile back, but otherwise we don't know each other too well. It will always be that way.
I guess I haven't even considered the idea that you might not be attracted to me. But I think you are. You're a little awkward, and I love it. Everyone else pretends not to see it. I think you want to join me in my messiness a little, I think you want someone to make you feel warm and unforgiving like a homemade cookie. It's not deep, it's just dumb high-school relationships that you don't call relationships.