The day was sticky and lazy. We sat gabbing all day, my decade-dance-friend and I. It was decadent, deserved. Between half-assed yoga stretches and small portions of oatmeal, we gabbed about him, his taste in vintage shirts, and all the things I was thinking days after the last conversation we had, in which I had told him how intrigued I had become, and to be clear with me—don’t string me along. “This is really all about you,” she said, a gentle challenge to face my fear; to recognize how I loved the stalling. Of course I would cling to the idea of someone like this. This is safe. You know…