Even though he had told me, “I lurked your facebook the other day and added you as a buddy on AIM … At least now we are bff! yay for us!” during one texting session, I was still surprised when the IMs came. But in a good way. I haven’t smiled from a name appearance on my buddy list since middle school.

Since AIM conversations are subject to interpretation, what with texts’ inability to convey sarcasm or voice inflections, I usually only talk online (gchat etc) to those whom I know well enough to assume proper verbal translations. Having our slight texting history helped–I knew I could call him a tool without causing offense –but essentially, I still don’t know this person, not really, anyway. Our written communication could easily have gone in perpendicular directions.

Luckily, that wasn’t the case. Our banter and his stories, though random, remained entertaining; even the inconsequential, pseudo-impressive video games stories.

“Molly, I know you are impressed … I am sure you just fell to the floor just then. Collect yourself.”

“I don’t think we can still talk. I am officially like, really super intimidated.”

“Relax. I am humble.”

We talk easily. Or maybe he talks easily and I play the innocent bystander.

The thing with this one is that he doesn’t seem to overanalyze or play too many games. In a good way. He just talks. And talks and talks. As if oblivious that some people talk strategically. Or with substance. At first, I wondered if it was from nerves or possibly some type of professional mechanism used on client-equivalents, but I think it’s just his personality. He talks. In an comforting, not annoying, way.* Because of that, I never worry about being the first to initiate a conversation; once I do, he will continue it. Effortlessly.

I haven’t had a smile-inducing, low maintenance and non-threatening someone for a very long time. If nothing else, I really appreciate that quality in him. And for now, middle school though it may be, it’s enough.

*As an only child, I think he’s used to being the center of a captive audience. My woe-is-me, lost-and-forgotten, middle-child syndrome often squelches a melodramatic, the-world-is-over teenage eye-roll at the attention-getting behavior — but then I forgive him, finding it hypercritical to judge one being a victim of birth.

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