He's a big man now that he drinks at Starbucks

The barista's laugh is loud, grating. The two small boys at the next table stare, watching me flip through a thick chemistry text.

I'm not sure who I am any more. Gone is the sweet girl who swore to save herself for marriage, clinging to the dreams and myths of the 50s. In her place is an over-cynical quasi-optimist who doesn't really care about what she will feel tomorrow, only wanting justification and adoration in the here and now.

Weasley was perfect for the sweet girl I once was. He reminded me of a time when I wanted a thousand small children running between the legs of my many Great Danes.

He turned out to be truly idiotic. Forbidding me from large words in his presence, calling me every pet name but my own. Refused to step foot in my haven, because he hates coffee. Wanted sex-telly-sex-telly like a stereotypical guy.

So I went for it. I went for the brash Southern burr with the blonde hair and the defined abs. Turns out, those kinds of guys aren't any good for me either. He just wanted a quick and easy lay, not even holding my hand while leading me to the hill he wanted to couple on.

I kept thinking, If I coax him, he'll get sweeter, softer. He didn't. So we didn't. Did we? I'm not sure.

Perhaps my plans for the future are too big, too broad, too overwhelming.

The only reason I'm pursuing a degree is because the Peace Corps requires volunteers to have a bachelor's in something. In order to travel the world helping people, I have to learn how to help myself. But the purpose of traveling was supposed to be to find myself. Can I help myself before I know who me really is? The irony is astounding.

I'll write a book about it someday.

Dating A Weasley

He's red-haired, brown-eyed, covered in freckles. He plays ice hockey and is shocked when I show true interest in the game. He majored in business - maths and numbers are his thing. He will tell pointless stories until he's blue in the face, and follow it up with a kiss on the nose. He's a smart ass, an asshole, and he tries to dish it out. I dish it better.

He made me want to flip my claddagh ring, crown pointing out. We held hands and cuddled. I remembered all those things I thought I had forgot. He makes me feel like my short hair is sexy, rather than just chic. He told me how gorgeous I was, and how long he had waited to kiss me.

He isn't the asshole I was falling for. And I wonder at my ability to transfer affections. Or rather, to ignore my other feelings without a thought. Because when I think of The Asshole, my stomach flutters a bit.

But I'm dating a Weasley. And that thought puts a smile on my face, a slow, warm smile with soft eyes and a momentary pause as I think about his laugh.