After I had stopped talking, he pressed my hand to his shoulder, then moved his hand to his neck, and asked me if I would come to his home. I told him no, I had some things I needed to do. "Will you read to me?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, but I just don't have the time today, I should probably be going." I realized that it was raining lightly, as it usually does in Seattle, but it was a reminder that the world I had been in previous to meeting Andrew still existed, and despite having no real pressing need to re-enter my regular routine, I felt like there was nothing more important than to leave. "I better go," I repeated.

"Can I have your phone number?"

I felt trapped. By Andrew, but also by my own guilt at not wanting to let him call me. I wanted to say goodbye forever, and when I realized this, I felt enormously selfish, and so I said, "Sure." And I wrote down my phone number and handed it to him, with my name, in case he forgot.

I hurried home, praying that he'd never call. I wanted to forget about it, and so when my roommates greeted me, I said nothing about my encounter with Andrew. Even though it was just the kind of story that could be changed ever so slightly to bring me into a favorable light – to show that I was living in a paradise of moral fortitude – I would rather forget that it had ever happened.