Once upon a time in a far off land called New York, I went to college. It was my last year, but one of my best friends had already graduated. So she and I used to meet far downtown, near her apartment, at a bar named after a city on the Black Sea. We were friendly with the bartenders and often went out with them on their off nights. We knew the prices of the drinks and how many free ones to expect. We knew who to share our drugs with and who would share with us. We were definitely what one would term “regulars.”
There were other regulars too, ones who weren’t in our group of regulars. And one of those regulars decided to talk to me. And he was cute and witty and sure, why not, I’ll give you my number.
For our first date, he invited me to his apartment so that he could cook for me. It was the first time that had ever happened to me. And he knew how to cook. And he knew how to play chess. And he knew about astrology. And he owned books that I hadn’t read. Eventually I wanted a cigarette. He didn’t smoke, but he said he had no problem with me doing it. He also had no problem kissing me afterwards. And he had beautiful white bedding. And for the next date, he wanted to show me how to cook a “blah blah blah,” and who was I to pass up a free meal, even if I didn’t know what on earth half the ingredients were.
He was 18 years older than I was. And he did yoga. And he owned a bike, which was mounted on the wall. And he had traveled the world. And I hadn’t even graduated from college yet.
A few months after we stopped pretending we were dating, I saw him at a very hipster concert venue. I pretended I didn’t see him, but I think he knew.
Sorry about that. Also, the sheets.