I have an insanely early flight tomorrow at 6AM. I should be in bed, but I can’t sleep.
You see, she wrote back. And I’m ecstatic. I’m full of those butterflies from first dates. It’s a good feeling. Energizing. But not for sleep. I close my eyes and I see the myriad memories, so many good ones.
She was sitting at table in the rec center under Wismer Hall, studying. I worked A/V and hung out there a lot–ping pong tables, need I say more? This wasn’t our first meeting. I was sitting with her and we were talking about how whiny Steve was. I don’t remember what else we talked about–how sad is that? Years later, I remember she told me she noticed me because there was something feral about me. I don’t know how I took that when she told me. But the older I get, the more of a compliment I find it. (My hair was long and curly, then, before the great recession began. Not that I’m sure my hair had anything to do with it.)
She was living with her parents and I had a roommate, so we necked in our cars for hours. We were like a couple of high schoolers. I never had a car in high school, so I missed that whole scene. Cars create that special sort of intimacy that only mutual discomfort can bring. Making out in a car sucks, and that makes it kinda good, because it’s a sacrifice. We want this thing so much, we’re willing to defy geometry, anatomy and circulation to make it happen–and that’s just the necking. Maybe petite people can make out comfortably in cars. She was pretty tall and I sure as hell wasn’t petite.
That’s the problem with fucking airplane seats. You’re forced to be intimate with the person on either side of you–just by being there, you’re in each other’s personal space. Add the discomfort factor and, unless you’re making out like you’re in a car, it’s just miserable. I hate airplanes.