I don't remember this one's name.
Matt? Mark? Merv?
Whatever, we'll call him Mike.
I met Mike at a dinner that was being thrown by a friend of a friend in Richmond. We ended up frequenting moonlit patio parties together and sitting in my silver pickup for hours afterward, talking about summer and work and the inflatable twin mattress I always kept behind the passenger seat, in case I felt like stargazing on the fly.
Yes, that is actually why it was there. And sure, I inflated it from time to time, and became lost in the infinite depths above, always alone, and always perfectly content. (except for the horrendous Virginia mosquitoes, that is)
But back to Mike. He was handsome and smart and polite and funny, and he was a terrible kisser.
I'm not kidding, I mean awful.
I didn't really mind though. For good company once a week, I'd trade a couple of bad kisses. Besides, I was leaving soon.
The last time I saw him was the first time I went to his house - a small bachelor pad shared by him, a couple of roomates, and a well heard but unseen mongrel of some kind of another. We sat on the couch and shared some bad kisses. He said he'd call me. I said I'd call him.
I got in my truck and drove home.
The next morning, I woke up before dawn, curled my hair, and went to work.
What did I learn from that relationship?
I learned that I liked apple beer (who knew they had apple beer?), my understanding of enjoyment without commitment (either internal or external) being perfectly fine was deepened, and I learned that having a mattress in my truck was an interesting topic of conversation.
It's not that I ever intended to not call Mike again, I was just done with that pink spoon. It's just the way it happened.
A week or two later the next one solidified out of the woodwork, along with a nice jawline and rock-hard biceps, but that's for another chapter.
Labels: the pink spoon theory