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When I was 23, I was early for everything. I had just graduated college and gotten my first full-time job, and I was accustomed to obsessive clock-watching, terrified of arriving late and making a bad impression.

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I always left the house well before I needed to and stressed if I got caught in what the rural Midwest considers traffic. I had sent him a message on OKCupid, charmed at the pun in his screen name. We messaged back and forth a few times, and I was surprised when he agreed to meet me for a drink. Caleb was late. Though I stressed about my own potential tardiness, I accepted his without judgment. He ambled up the sidewalk, guiding his bicycle at his hip. I looked down at my phone and pretended to be immersed.

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It was a flip phone with no internet, but it was better than looking expectant. I pretended my exquisite beauty had taken his breath away, not that he'd just biked across town. Sweat stains bloomed in his pastel pink button-up shirt, but he still looked good. He was only a couple years younger than me, but his round face, milky skin, and elfish features made him look like a teenager.

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I felt just a little gross. I followed Caleb to the patio behind the bar where a garden wall draped with holiday lights enclosed the area. It all felt very romantic, and I wondered if he'd chosen to take me outside because of that. We sat and talked. Or rather, Caleb talked and I listened.

The thing about Caleb was that he was the exact opposite of me, which made him cool. We exchanged a list of our interests. Him: traveling, wordly cuisine, trespassing and exploring condemned buildings.

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Me: reading, Taco Bell, not breaking the law. I struggled to spin my hobbies into anything that sounded interesting enough to impress him. Film critic Nathan Rabin has since written that he regrets inventing the term Manic Pixie Dream Girl because it has been taken so far out of context. Instead of being read as a critique on female characters deed to save the white male protagonist from ennui, himself, or the inevitability of death, the MPDG had been treated as a genuine archetype. Because it's an inherently sexist construction, and because he was not a character but a real person, Caleb couldn't actually be a Manic Pixie Dream Boy.

But nothing is more real than the movies, and in the narrative of my life, I hoped he would be a catalyst. Looking at myself from the outside, I was not Women want sex Corrigan, not interesting, not worth the time. Caleb gave me the opportunity to change myself into someone I imagined would be more appealing.

Which is why, when he asked if I wanted to come back to his place and hang out, I agreed. He either accepted me and my boring, cautious tendencies, or he wanted to sleep with me. I was good with either.

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I followed him on his bike to his house. I had no choice but to get my drivers and take care of my own transportation. At Caleb's rundown house, tucked into a grove of straggly trees alongside the railroad tracks, beer bottles glittered on the uneven yard. I parked my car in the crooked drive as Caleb leaped off his bike and tossed it aside, dark hair gleaming with sweat. Women want sex Corrigan didn't approach my car or wait for me to get out, just ran up the porch steps and into the house. The screen door clapped behind him. I walked toward the house, looking up at the white paint flaking off in huge chunks.

Cracks splitting many of the windows were held together by yellowed masking tape. A waterlogged loveseat sagged on the porch. Caleb came from a middle-class family. That he had chosen this poverty was stupidly alluring to me. It was a life that my family, who had lost our house and much of our savings, had actively striven to avoid. I had double-majored in college, hoping to land a practical and decent paying full-time job.

Caleb had attended the University of Iowa as a philosophy major, but had quit after a couple semesters, insisting that the structure stifled him. He's like Kerouac, I thought, refusing to be tied down to bourgeois values. Caleb threw the door open and told me to make myself at home, gesturing to the living room with a sweeping motion. Huge brown splotches stained the sofa, so I stood, clutching my purse to my stomach. I was acutely aware and ashamed of the domesticity of my purse, with its cough drops, tampons, bits of Kleenex.

He grabbed a couple bottles of Redd's and nodded to the staircase. He led me into a bedroom that was vacant except for a few paperbacks flung across the dusty floor. I pointed to one of the yellowed books. Its spine was broken, its s fanned out. I calculated the likelihood of falling off the roof and dying, becoming paralyzed, or at least breaking my limbs.

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I imagined myself as Humpty Dumpty shattering into a zillion pieces upon impact. My family would sweep my remains into a dustpan. My obituary would be vague, because my loved ones would be ashamed I'd fallen off a roof trying to impress a boy who wasn't even nice to me. Although every cell inside my body was pleading to stay on solid ground, I followed Caleb onto the lowest part of the roof, the flat outcrop that jutted over the porch. And I was sorry.

I was sorry that my boundaries were putting a stop to his fun. He shrugged, visibly exasperated, and sat down on the roof.

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He played some music from his phone, tinny and muffled. The evening descended over us, crisp and cool. After a while, he asked if he could kiss me, and I said yes. It was soft and nice, only partly ruined by my focus on not tumbling off the roof. Caleb rolled his own cigarettes and listened to Joy Division.

He lived with an age-ambiguous slacker named Coyote, and decorated his bedroom with memorabilia stolen from the Hancher Auditorium after the floods. Rebelling against good sense made Caleb cool, although there was just as much safety in his lifestyle as there was in mine. We both obeyed our own respective life scripts, and while I wanted to pull away from mine, Caleb was fully enmeshed in the comfort of having his identity formed by the world he built around himself.

I visited Caleb every Women want sex Corrigan, and soon we were sleeping together. His skin was smooth and hairless, and it was like making love to a slightly more responsive sea cucumber. Mostly, our intimacy was awkward and hushed, our faces and bodies hazy in the dim orange light of his bedroom. He kept his eyes closed instead of looking at me, but I was content just to be kissed and touched by anybody.

I've done it before, right underneath the Black Angel. Not only was Caleb's proposition illegal, but it seemed especially reckless to tempt the wrath of the supernatural. My face burned. There was a fundamental difference between us, where he would do things just to do things, to say he did them. He took risks with no reward, only consequence.

What was the difference between being adventurous and being immature? His comment got to me, though. I'd been a fearful child who grew into a clinically anxious adult who overthought everything so much it made me sick. I was terrified of doing the wrong thing, so I actively avoided social engagements, travel, asking for a well-deserved promotion at work. So when Caleb invited me to a house party at a stranger's house, I agreed. I wondered if he considered me his girlfriend.

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It was a question that felt rude to ask, and by bringing it up, I could cause the tenuous dynamic between us to crumble. As always, I got to Iowa City too early and had nothing to do but drive around and wait for Caleb to get off work. A chronic nail-biter and pragmatist, I'd never gotten a manicure.

To spend the money felt overly self-indulgent, and something as inconsequential as making small talk with the nail technician was daunting. I rarely even painted my own nails, unable to commit to a shade I wouldn't hate the next day. On a whim, I pulled into the parking lot and walked in. I selected French tips, which the nail technician painstakingly glued on and then filed down until they were all even.

My hands ached by the end. He half glanced at my nails, looking up briefly from his task of cramming alcohol and mixers into his backpack.

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