“I used many sources, and Teen Vogue has pretty incisive political coverage these days, by the way. It was all very insightful. . . .” She looks up from her cards and looks around the halls for a moment before pointing to Mark Iglesias and Robby Demers, hands in each other’s back pockets, literally nestled into each other as they walk. They’re considerably slowing down foot traffic but don’t seem to care, basking in their two-years-running Prom Kings romance.

“None of that. I can walk fine without my hand in your back pocket. And vice versa, I assume.”

“Your loss, Troy. My butt game is strong.”

“Oh, I’m aware.” She smiles ever so slightly, still reading her card. “But that’s what rooms with closed doors are for, Haltiwanger.”

The rest of the precepts are very reasonable if not outright welcome in soothing some of my lingering dating anxieties.

1. We’re both busy and don’t need to freak out if we don’t see each other every day.
2. Asking for space is okay.
3. Check in when unsure of their feelings.
4. No calling each other “partners” because we’re not running Mergers & Acquisitions here. We’re not even eighteen: let’s calm down.
5. Be there instead of being sorry.

“I don’t quite get that last one,” Corinne admits, frowning at her own handwriting. “But it was up-voted to the top of this thread online, so I assume there’s wisdom there.”

As we settle on a slightly frosted table in the quad, I glimpse another set of pink cards at the bottom of her bag and have to wonder if her notecards might be less of a life hack and more of a compulsion. There’s an argument to be made that snuggling in the quad and sharing the same side of a picnic table is somewhere on the spectrum that leads to walking with hands in each other’s pockets but, shit, I’m not about to be the one to point it out.

“Number six: digital communications. You, um, don’t have to text or call me every day if I’m traveling,” she says, leaning her head against my shoulder as she reads. “I refuse to be that obnoxiously needy girlfriend that needs ‘check-ins’ or anything.”

“But . . . we can, right? It’s not a rule that we can’t? Like if we want to. Or if I want to text you.”

She turns around and stares at me for a second with a smile flickering. “Yeah, sure. I mean, these are more guidelines than rules. If you want to call me, I won’t . . . not answer or anything.”

“Good.” I smile and lean in to kiss her.

Sidebar: Corinne is a very, very good kisser. A tip-of-your-toes and giggling-for-no-reason-each-time type of kisser. She could teach a tutorial.