A lack of fighting potential is a lousy reason not to date someone. Fighting is not a good thing. Fighting is conflict and asymmetry. Given the two choices, not fighting should be the obvious better choice.

Should be.

The previous evening, he told me to call the two of them with our bar location; when I said I didn’t have either of their numbers, he gave me both while taking mine. The next evening, he didn’t wait for my text; he initiated the contact and joined our festivities, with his best friend, shortly thereafter.

The Brother, The Sister and I were celebrating the three-day span that our ages are ordered sequentially: 24, 25, 26. As the only one without a birthday, I was our driver, sober and slightly lonely.

Until they came. I was so happy to see them.

His best friend, whom I had previously sort-of dated-without-resolution, was charmingly drunk, yelling my name upon sight and continuously giving high-five cheers to remember how we first met. “Molly! Blind date! Yeah, Molly, yeah!”

The other bought birthday jag bombs for my siblings and helped me cheat in foosball. Later, underneath the table, his knee was in constant contact with mine; when tested, his knee followed mine to its new position.

Like my new Sharpie tattoo of a fire-breathing dragon (drawn shoddily by one of the guys), they brightened my evening. They were above-and-beyond nice to the siblings’ friends and made me laugh with their enthusiasm and rambunctious-ness. My face hurt from laughing so hard, I needed to adjust the muscles. Both were amazingly sweet and I had such a great time.

The curse of the nice again. They were too nice. They would never fight me.

The it’s not you, it’s me cliché is true with boys like them. It’s me. I’m not attracted to the nice ones, the easy route, the healthy option. Given a relationship with a nice boy, I would control everything. Not necessarily deliberately but because I would adhere to a different set of playing rules. Without someone to reign me in or call me an asshole when I am being an asshole, I would test my limits like a spoiled child. It would end badly. I’m not looking for a someone in my constant opposition, but someone willing to match my passion – for a good fight, for a good debate, for a good… anything –is a required necessity. Someone that’s not always so nice.

I wish that I could date one of them, that I could be happy with comfortable and content. That the pleasantness of Saturday could become an entire relationship, changed only to include some making out and couch-cuddling. I wish that the easy choice could be enough. And maybe it could be, maybe I could change and convince myself; it would only last temporarily. Only long enough to hurt us both.

It’s too bad, though, that they are so nice. If they weren’t and I didn’t genuinely care about them, I might try to convince myself that my needs were different.

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