Together, we made a lovely J.Crew catalog in New York City's Riverside Park. He was a Southern gentleman just missing the bow tie, and I was his girly companion in pink, white, and red. It was only my fourth date with the guy, but until then, he'd seemed perfect: an intelligent 23-year-old with blond hair, visible maturity, and the derring-do to wear a pink button-up. "I'm an ISTJ," he told me, and that's the moment I decided it could be doomed.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |