I once thought I was in love with this intelligent, attractive, perfect-but-not-quite, guy.
He said and did all the right things. Kinda.
He would take off work early, just to beat you home. He'd stop by the florist's to get you flowers . . . but they would be something like carnations. He'd put one of your favorite, slow, calming CDs on . . . but just a little too loud. He'd light dozens of candles in the tub, on the sink, in the bedroom . . . but they would be a scent that makes you sick; like vanilla. He'd wait until five minutes before you were set to be home and run you a deep, relaxing bubble bath . . . but somehow the water was always cold. He'd cook you your favorite meal . . . but the best parts always ended up burning. He would make love to you passionately . . . but always stop just before you climaxed. He would rise quietly and ready himself for work .. . but then he'd slam the door.
If it was truly the thought that counts, this was your man. But after a while, the thought grows old and it's the actions that matter.
I spent our last night at his place. I put on his favorite CD, but just a little too softly to hear. I cooked his favorite dinner, but burned his favorite dessert. I took a long, steamy shower, but made sure to use all the hot water. I teased him passionately, then fell asleep before he made it to bed. I silently readied myself and packed my bags, but I made sure the taxi knew to honk loudly when it reached the house. I flew to my convention and stayed there for a week, but I never took his calls.
For all I know, we're still dating.