I didn’t even know it was a date until, suddenly, his hand found mine.

Clumsy and fumbling in the dark of the theater, he intertwined our trembling fingers, one by one by one.  He glanced at me, eyes wide and hopeful, soft smile hidden behind a blush.  I kept my eyes locked on the glaring movie screen, its bold colors blurring together like a tearstained painting.

“Is this okay?” he whispered, gentle, wavering words ringing uncomfortably in my ear. From the corner of my vision, I saw him nod toward our hands, struggling to stifle an awkward chuckle.

It was sickly sweet.

He was a sweet guy. Kind, smart, funny, objectively good-looking. His cold hand holding holding mine shouldn’t have just been okay; I should have been over the moon about it!

But the theater was much too bright and dark and loud, and I couldn’t think straight. And, if I was being completely honest with myself, I really didn’t like being able to feel the watery sweat on his rough palm. But what was I supposed I say? He was a sweet guy. A good friend. I liked him, everyone thought I liked him, I swore I could like him!

My jaw clenched as I tried to swallow the sharp pang of wrongness I always got on dates back down my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping it would make the prickle of tears go away.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” I tried to smile, but my giveaway voice came out hoarse and uncertain.

What the hell was wrong with me?