Ain’t No Lloyd Dobler

He felt like an idiot, standing in the rain, dripping wet in her front yard. He was soaked right through and his perfectly picked out clothes were now clinging to his body in a seriously unflattering way.

He was miserable.

It seemed like such a good idea at the time, but now here he was, drenched, cold, embarrassed, with the distinct possibility of being electrocuted. WHAT. A. MORON.

The music played on above his head, his arms aching from holding them up in the air. It didn’t even look like she was home. He probably should have checked that.

As the water ran into his eyes he shook his head, causing his hair to slap him violently in the face. Okay, that’s it, I’m done, he thought as he noticed how his feet squelched uncomfortably inside his boots.

Suddenly the front door opened.

“What are you doing?” she yelled from the shelter of the house.

“Being romantic,” he yelled back.

“What?”

It dawned on him that the rain was so heavy she couldn’t hear a damn thing. He pulled down the boombox and turned it off, splashing through puddles as he ran to the house.

“I was being romantic,” he said, breathing heavily. He pointed at the boombox and held up a soggy Peter Gabriel CD. “Say Anything!”

“Idiot,” she said.

(c) Amy Hutton

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