My Type (#135)

When people ask me if I have a type, I never know what to say. My first boyfriend now wears an incredible amount of eyeliner and rocks tight leather pants while playing in his death metal band. He also has a stage name, so there’s that. Later, in high school, I was more attracted to the lovable nerd types. Or they were the ones attracted to me, which was good enough. My celebrity crushes include Jimmy Fallon, Ed Sheeran, Ryan Reynolds, Mr. Darcy, and Malcolm from Survivor.

Currently, I am co-crushing on two boys in my grad classes. One has a man bun and beat-up loafers and never carries a backpack. He can quote poetry, classic rock, and funny movies fluently, which he does frequently to make the whole class laugh. He works at a flower shop, which makes sense for some reason. We bond over how much we loved high school, and how it’s all kinda been downhill from there.

The other boy has tortoiseshell glasses and a receding hairline. He works at the flowers marked, spent three years teaching in China, and brings in extra dry-erase markers for our forgetful professor. He doesn’t raise his hand often, but when he does the whole room gets quiet to hear whatever soft-spoken brilliance is about to spill out. Once, I forgot to print the required reading and he printed out an extra one for me.

If these two met, I’m not sure what they’d talk about, but they’d probably get along.

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