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The melancholy of a schoolboy. It was not a date no matter what the midget said. Not the smaller she-midget, but the tailed-midget that sang choruses of catcalls accompanied by a troupe of wagging brows and boisterous slaps on his back. Squall Leonhart knew what a date was, of course. As a stellar example of all that is SeeD, Squall had, in his younger years, poured into books lending knowledge of seduction and the feminine mind. And, once more, no; it was not the hormones coursing his veins, making his stomach squirm whenever that blonde girl a year ahead of him chuckled melodically, that drove him to the aforementioned books, indeed, but sc