She’d put herself in a vulnerable position already. “No one says ‘I love you’ on a first date! “It’s not even common sense, because no one has ever thought to make up a rule for it!” Her face washed in a blush as if even it knew her mistake. She could regret her words, had they been deliberate. But it was an accident? She wasn’t even sure. She was just embarrassed.

The awkward pause that followed her faux pas continued. Inside of it were two awkward smiles.

She hadn’t been thinking at all. That’s what everyone loved about her. She carelessly let a “Shucks!” slip where a curse would be far more appropriate, or smile, and recognize what she appreciates about someone with an “Oh, I love you.” She was the only authentically positive person she knew, and the only person she knew who didn’t know that.

He was befuddled. He twiddled his thumbs rapidly beneath the table. He stopped when he thought she could see him fidgeting. He needed to seem sure—of himself and of the situation if they were going to salvage the date. He knew what she meant, or how she meant it.

So, he confessed, “I collect pocket lint!” And in three ready instants their eyebrows anteed one, two, and three levels of surprise, relief, and confusion.

His words, “It’s a fun hobby. You have to be very meticulous,” treaded the space in which hers had nearly drowned. They also brought their twitching faces back into comfortable positions along with their conversation.

Until she spoke, warmly, “Sweetheart, I have never heard of a more unique hobby. Just how long have you been collecting lint?”

Grateful for her rescue, she indulged him long enough to hear what was actually a fascinating justification of a very strange pastime.

“I consider them the genetic makeup of my experiences. If I could extract the delicate information contained in each thread it would be possible to recreate whole scenes of my life. Think about it.”

She thought about it.