Nope! Way too porny. Any decent script would just say “He gets on his knees and pleasures her, his head under her dress, while she stands pressed against the bathroom door, one leg draped over his shoulder.”

Why is it so hot that a hot girl hates my guts? Do I purposefully say things to piss her off because I get weirdly turned on by her wrath? Yeah. I do.

Do I think of her as my nemesis? Not at all.

Do I think of myself as her nemesis? If it makes me important to her, then yeah. I do.

I write screenplays. I understand storytelling and structure. I know that a protagonist’s nemesis defines her and forces her to become the best person she’s capable of being.

I’ll be that guy for Erin Duffy. Fuck yeah.

Would I still be this hot for her if she batted her eyelashes at me and baked me a lasagna? Probably. But the reality is she’s more likely to come after me with a baseball bat and pour Tabasco sauce between the layers of pasta she serves me and guess what—I would invite her to step up to the plate and I would eat everything—every hot thing—she offers me.

Truth is, I’m fine with the way things went at the wedding, it just ended too abruptly. Once I was able to return to the party without an erection, I realized that it was probably better that we didn’t get to go further so quickly.

I’ll get another chance. I’ll get it right. Now she’ll have to wonder. Now she’ll have to wait. I’ll have to wait too, of course, but I’ve waited this long for the opportunity to win her over, I can wait for the right moment to blow her mind.

She doesn’t even remember the first time we saw each other. It was my first week in Boston, right before classes started. I had been on a week-long bender, still reeling from my breakup. It was my first day sober in ages and I had a monster hangover. I was at a coffee shop near campus, the unshaven, unshowered asshole wearing black Ray Bans and a Yankees cap (a passive-aggressive act in Boston), drinking black coffee and reading A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway, because it reminded me that I was more than just a miserable hung-over dumped shithead. She walked in, talking on her cell phone, wearing a tank top and jeans, no make-up, her shiny blonde hair pulled up into a ponytail. She was so fucking hot and she wasn’t even trying. Every guy in the place was checking her out, ogling her perky tits and heart-shaped ass. Not saying I didn’t get an eyeful of them too, but what I couldn’t take my eyes off of—the thing about her that knocked the hangover right out of me like a sexy slap in the face—was her smile. It lit up the room and I immediately felt jealous of whoever it was she was talking to. I wanted to be the one to make her smile like that.

She was in line to order, still on the phone, glanced over at me and my book, and said under her breath—not to me or to the person she was on the phone with—she just said it to herself: “I love that book.” Then she ordered an iced coffee, went to the ladies room, picked up her drink and left without ever making eye contact with me.

The next time I saw her was in our History of Media Arts class. We got into an argument about French avant-garde filmmakers and she’s basically been giving me shit ever since.

I’ve made her angry.

I’ve made her laugh.

I’ve made her confused.

I’m confident that I made her wet when we were kissing at the wedding.

I still haven’t made her smile the way I want to yet.

But I will.