My first date of the day is with Mary, whose appearance and mannerisms are as pleasant as her name sounds. Dressing for a date with Mary is simple. I wear the same hooded sweatshirt every time (I only own one), jeans and tennis shoes. There is no need to dress up for Mary because she is the type of girl who considers going on long walks dating. She loves the fact that she thinks she is romantic. And I love the fact that I appear more sensitive by agreeing to go on the walks. It’s a symbiotic relationship similar to that of vegetarians and tofu.

Today is our fourth date, and since we are still in the beginning phases of our relationship, long conversations are possible because both of us are still trying to impress one another with our life stories. As we walk along the river, we talk about our hometowns and secretly compete with one another as to whose hometown is the poorest. Neither one of us grew up poor, but nobody ever wants to say they come from a rich hometown because, for some odd reason, being poor makes you more interesting. “I drove an old ’86 Chevy to high school,” Mary says. “I drove a stolen Go-Cart,” I respond without hesitation. “My mom only took me clothes shopping twice a year to K-Mart,” Mary says. “I only have one hooded sweatshirt,” I add.

Toward the middle of our walk, Mary begins holding my hand. Through our four dates, holding hands is the one thing we have to do to let one another know we are still interested. When I hold Mary’s hand, I make sure to smoothly rub my thumb over the top of her hand. She likes when I do it, and I like that she likes it. Also, without the thumb rub, she might as well be holding hands with a corpse. There’s only so much you can do with holding hands. There’s the occasional squeeze, and when things get really hot, the thumb rub.

It’s at this point that I get a phone call from Amber, my second date of the day. I tell Mary that it’s my mother, and she has to talk to me about how we aren’t going to be able to keep the house because of the fifth mortgage. Point for me.

Amber and I have a phone date every day, and just like hand holding with Mary, if Amber and I don’t talk at least once a day via the telephone, our whole relationship will be destroyed by a massive fireball. Our relationship depends on the phone because, well, we’ve never officially met. One day, she had the wrong number, and the rest is history. We have been phone dating for three months now, and instead of answering the phone with boyish excitement like I used to, sometimes I just send her right to the voicemail. We are going through a “dry spell,” in which questions like “What are you thinking?” force long pauses in the conversation.

Amber: Hey.

Seth: Hey.

Amber: So…

Seth: So…

Amber: What are you thinking?

(Pause.)

Amber: Are you still there?

Seth: Yes. Hold on, I have another call. (Click.) Hey mom.

Mom: Seth, your Jaguar was refurbished and we added another wing for you on the house.

Seth: Thanks, Mom. I’m actually on the other line with Amber.

Mom: Wow, this one’s pretty serious, huh?

Seth: Yeah, three months.

Mom: I love you, honey.

Seth: Love you too. (Click.) That was my mom.

Amber: Is your family still being evicted?

Seth: Yeah … It’s sad.

Amber: I just don’t feel this relationship is going anywhere.

Seth: We’re in a dry spell.

Amber: What are we going to do after I graduate?

Seth: You’re a year older than me? I have to get going. My thing is happening.

Amber: Okay. I think this was a good date. (Pause.) I like you.

Seth: I like you too. (Click.)

After hanging up, Mary approaches me with an extended hand, daring me not to take it. “How’s the family?” Mary asks. “It’s not looking too good,” I reply. Looking at my watch, I realize it’s almost time for my third date of the day, which is now dusk. I lean into Mary to kiss her, and she positions her hand between my mouth and hers. Hand holding just got weirder. The funny thing is, we have kissed once, but we both know the kiss wasn’t long or definitive enough to elevate us from hand-holders to kissers.

I rush to Brandy, who is already seated in the movie theater. I sit next to her and say hello, prompting her to tell me to “move over one seat, face forward and shut up.” Brandy and I seldom talk, and truthfully, I don’t think she likes me very much. I have only made her laugh once, and that was only because on our last date, a 5-year-old boy with horrible parents punched me in the genitals. I’m pretty sure the only reason Brandy sees me is because she likes telling her friends she has plans with a boy and is comforted by the fact she isn’t lying. The movie starts and ends and, as the credits role, we stand and shake hands goodbye. As we shake, I try to rub my thumb over the top of her hand because I want to. She quickly pulls back. We then leave through opposite exits. She doesn’t ask me to call because she knows I will. Brandy is a hard one to break.

I like her the most.

Seth Reiss, a junior in the College of Communication, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.