It was our third date. Things had been going well so far, but we were still in that stage when small missteps could become deal breakers: affection for the wrong author, failure to hold (or not hold!) the door.
We'd had a pleasant conversation over drinks at one of the two date spots in our tiny college town and were now lolling on my couch, augmenting our discussion with the kinds of small touches you try out when letting someone new into your personal space -- shoulder pats, hand-holding, cheek-brushing. It was one of those warm moments in the beginning of a courtship where both parties know they're making all the right moves and that, for the immediate future, everything was golden.
Then she tried another little touch. She reached over and affectionately tugged on my ear.
"I love you," I blurted out.
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