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Well, I once loved a very tall, skinny boy with the most vulnerable of necks who gave me the courage to go to parties and dances when I thought I might pass out from shyness.

“On the count of three,” he’d say while my heart pounded and my vision blurred, and he’d take my hand in his. “One. Two. Three.”

And in we’d go.

That could explain why I counted myself in: I was thinking of him.