After you’ve sat in a bar with him and talked for an hour and a half; after lulls in the conversation that are filled with two-second gazes into each other’s eyes (a longer time than it sounds, really), gazes broken by mutual shyness; after you’ve asked him if he’d like to go, and he’s picked up the tab himself; after you’ve walked a few blocks back to the area where you both live, after you’ve asked him if he’d like to hang out a while longer, after he’s responded by inviting you back to his place; after you’ve sat there on opposite ends of his couch, facing each other, continuing to talk for another hour or so, and he’s broken every silence by asking you questions about yourself; after you’ve decided it’s time to say it, so this time you break the silence and say to him, “You’re cute,” but it comes out sounding much more abrupt and blunt than you hoped it would; after all of that, how would you hope for him to respond?

Thank you. So are you.

or

Thank you. You’re adorable.

But he responds:

Thank you.

and his eyes dart away awkwardly.

I can actually hear the crickets chirp.

Points of ellipsis struggle to form in the air… and evaporate.

“I guess I shouldn’t have said that,” I say; “I guess you don’t think I’m cute,” trying to sound flirty and jokey.

“I didn’t say that.”

But you didn’t not.

Dot dot dot.

The night still ends with kissing and clothed cuddling on the couch.

And ambiguity.