I have been, and always will be, a sucker for romance: the cheesy text messages sent after three in the morning, the occasionally intellectual and naughty banter over wine, the footsies, the reckless and the brave “I like you and I would love to see you again” and “I would pin you on the wall and kiss you on our second date.”

That’s why I suggested that we go to the National Museum, told him it was free for the public during APEC week. I was not sure if museums and conversations in the gutter and long walks are his thing, but he said yes, anyway, and I thought that a museum date could salvage any romantic bone left in me.

As we walked past dozens of art pieces, I swear I could hear the narrator of 500 Days of Summer somewhere.

This is a story of boy meets girl, but you should know upfront,
this is not a love story.

Only he wasn’t Tom. Only I wasn’t Summer. And long walks are no longer my thing. And he couldn’t be naughty and intellectual as I expected. I got an Uber and never saw him again.




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