Wait. Isn't that my line?

"No hurry," I say rising from the couch, pulling him with me. "Walk me to my car?"

Leaning against my Jeep, we kiss again while my mind cuts to a montage of our next date: We laugh and canoodle in the kitchen as I prepare my three-cheese lasagna reserved exclusively for winter and potential long-term commitments.

Back at the car, his hands cup my face, our eyes locked. I expect a deep smooch, but instead he plants a quick peck on my forehead.

"You're such a nice girl," he says as air catches the damp residue from his kiss. "Text me when you get home?"

I nod as he walks backward up the duplex steps, fists deep in pockets.

I text, but no response.

The next morning he sends a Facebook message — a monologue full of clichés that basically says I'm a wonderful person who will make a great wife for someone else, but I'm not his match.

My guess? His inner thespian still seeks the drama I didn't deliver. Fine. He's cute, but the awkward eye-closing, humming and cigarettes suggest he doesn't fit the part for me either. So instead of mourning our meet-cute on the cutting room floor, I'm shifting my attention to a leading man who shares the pancakes.

Pengra is a recovering studio marketing executive turned freelance writer.

L.A. Affairs chronicles romance and relationships. Past columns are archived at latimes.com/laaffairs. If you have comments to share or a story to tell, write us at home@latimes.com.