lifeless and tiny in his, a dead battery. The electricity of touching was absent. I pictured my crush's hands, the hands that will not hold mine and the hands that will not reach for me, and for a moment I felt invisible. My date looked at me with an expression that resembled concern, but he ordered another whiskey and didn't ask any questions. I could have cried at that moment, but no tears fell. _____ "You really can't read that one, can you?" my friend Jennifer said to me as we strolled home from brunch. She was talking about my crush, the one who doesn't like me back. Jennifer is Irish, and just listening to her perfect lilt calms me. Even when she curses, it sounds like music. Something about her melody stirred something in me, and I felt a small choke. I hoped I wouldn't start crying, not over something as silly as a guy not liking me back. I swallowed a sob and smiled at her. She smiled, a band-aid, my temporary fix. She always offers a perfectly timed compliment when I start to feel sorry for myself, but I don't want her to take part in my loneliness by association. I know she'll never admit that she pities my insatiable crushes, just as I'll never admit that I'm pitiful. At the bar that night, I drank beer with my buddies. They're men, so I try to act tough. I prayed they couldn't see through my paper-thin disguise,