The night was normal. Extremely so. I picked up no weirdness, no innuendos, nothing that could be interpreted as anything but friendship. I almost feel guilty, like I had been accusing him of immoral actions only meant on the purest of levels.

We planned to go to dinner, a new Asian fusion restaurant, and one of his friends came last minute, although hesitated for fear of interrupting our “Valentine’s Day celebration.” Both of us were insistent that it was just a calendar-date coincidence.

Dinner was entertaining, not romantic or amative in the least. They told stories of poop and drunken sexual escapades –two separate story categories, not stories combining the two– so indiscernible vibes were not even possible.

After dinner, just the two of us went back to his apartment, played Double Dragon on old-school Nintendo and drank beer on the couch. We called Sweets to sing a sloppy rendition of Happy Birthday. He talked about his brother working in Venezuela and the merits of different Radiohead albums. Friend stuff. Totally low maintenance. When I fell asleep (because that’s what I do), he covered me with a comforter and continued to drink beer and listen to music. He woke me at midnight to tell me where he moved my car –his night-shift-working roommate needed his designated space –and he went to bed; I unintentionally fell back asleep on the couch (I’m telling you, I am a really good sleeper) and drove home at 2am.

Night over.

I am starting to believe it really was all in my head.

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