Forever ago, my friend R told me to meet him alone at the campus coffee shop, and when I arrived, he said he had news. He was going to ask our mutual friend to be his girlfriend. It was the first time I'd ever been alone with R. "Why are you telling me this?" I said. "Do you want to know if she likes you?" "No," he said, smiling with something like wisdom. Fifty-or-something years later, I still don't know for certain why he asked me to meet, though I suspect he thought I was in love with him. In his mind, he was doing me a kindness by breaking the sad news to me first, before choosing to love her. Liking (much less loving) him had not occurred to me, no offense. The only books he read were the Bible and Christian self-help, and someone who didn’t love to read wouldn’t have occurred to me as a prospect. R and our mutual friend dated for several years, got engaged at the very end, and parted forever. Married different people. I went to her wedding, not his. After college ended, I never saw him again. I remember him every few years, though, mostly his confidence, sipping his massive cup of hot chocolate. After all, I’m jealous; I wish I believed I was beloved. I’d call the world, and it would answer with a blue-and-green hand wrapped around an old-timey receiver. Since the world would be too vast to enter the coffee shop, even the big one on campus, I’d have to break the news over the phone: “I cannot love you in this lifetime.” And the world would pause before saying, “Why are you telling me this?"