What did it feel like, I wondered, to love someone that much? So much that you couldn't even control yourself when they came close, as if you might just break free of whatever was holding you and throw yourself at them with enough force to easily overwhelm you both.

What the hell," I said, pushing off the wall, ready to take off the head of whatever stupid salesperson had decided to get cozy with me. My elbow was still buzzing, and I could feel a hot flush creeping up my neck: bad signs. I knew my temper.
I turned my head and saw it wasn't a salesman at all. It was a guy with black curly hair, around my age, wearing a bright orange T-shirt. And for some reason he was smiling.
"Hey there," he said cheerfully. "How's it going?"
"What is your problem?" I snapped, rubbing my elbow.
"Problem?"
"You just slammed me into the wall, asshole."
He blinked. "Goodness," he said finally. "Such language."
I just looked at him. Wrong day, buddy, I thought. You caught me on the wrong day.
"The thing is," he said, as if we'd been discussing the weather or world politics, "I saw you out in the showroom. I was over by the tire display?"
I was sure I was glaring at him. But he kept talking.
"I just thought to myself, all of a sudden, that we had something in common. A natural chemistry, if you will. And I had a feeling that something big was going to happen. To both of us. That we were, in fact, meant to be together."
"You got all this," I said, clarifying, "at the tire display?"
"You didn't feel it?" he asked.
"No. I did, however, feel you slamming me into the wall," I said evenly.
"That," he said, lowering his voice and leaning closer to me, "was an accident. An oversight. Just an unfortunate result of the enthusiasm I felt knowing I was about to talk to you.

Oh, God," I said.
"No, it's Dexter," he replied, offering me his hand, which I ignored.
He glanced behind him, then back at me. "I'll see you soon," he said, and grinned at
me.
"Like hell," I replied,

Plastic ware," he said slowly, "like knives and forks and spoons?"
I brushed a bit of dirt off the back of my car—was that a scratch?—and said casually,
"Yeah, I guess.Just the basics, you know."
"Did you need plastic ware?" he asked.
I shrugged.
"Because," he went on, and I fought the urge to squirm, "it's so funny, because I need
plastic ware. Badly."
"Can we go inside, please?" I asked, slamming the trunk shut. "It's hot out here."
He looked at the bag again, then at me. And then, slowly, the smile I knew and
dreaded crept across his
face. "You bought me plastic ware," he said. "Didn't you?'
"No," I growled, picking at my license plate.
"You did!" he hooted, laughing out loud. "You bought me some forks. And knives.
And spoons.
Because—"
"No," I said loudly.
"—you love me!" He grinned, as if he'd solved the puzzler for all time, as I felt a flush
creep across my
face. Stupid Lissa. I could have killed her.
"It was on sale," I told him again, as if this was some kind of an excuse.
"You love me," he said simply, taking the bag and adding it to the others.
"Only seven bucks," I added, but he was already walking away, so sure of himself. "It
was on clearance,
for God's sake."
"Love me," he called out over his shoulder, in a singsong voice. "You. Love. Me.

I just thought to my self, all of a sudden, that we had something in common. A natural chemistry, if you will. And I had a feeling that something big was going to happen. To both of us. That we were, in fact, meant to be together.

I think she loves him," Lissa said. "And love is needing someone.
Love is putting up with someone's
bad qualities because they somehow complete you."
"Love is an excuse to put up with shit that you shouldn't," I replied,