It was almost 5am by the time he took me into his brand new apartment,
lit a fire (yes, a FIRE) and offered me my own pair of slippers.
and I looked around in awe
wondering to myself, how the hell did I get here
…and how the hell do I get out?
I already had decided as I stepped in to his marble bathroom
that he was the kind of guy
who called his mother every saturday,
used an expensive electric razor,
made his bed in the morning,
he was the kind of guy who wore nice wool socks,
and who would probably kiss your eyelashes
(and he did but that was later).
And when I got out of the giant marble bathroom,
I sat down next to him
on that leather couch with my legs crossed and
the fire lit behind him and he said,
“Tell me about your life
from beginning to end… the best that you can.”
And when I hesitated, he started to tell me about his instead
and I knew with the words “12 years of Catholic school”
and “studied law and computer engineering”
-the words “one serious girlfriend”
and “the same job for going on seven years”
that i would have no idea where to begin with my own story that still leaves me rotten sometimes
“Well?” He asked, there was his hand on my knee. “What about you?”
So I said that there were five of us children and all of our names
began with the letter S because my mother hated my grandmother,
who was foreign and had difficulty pronouncing the letter S.
and he laughed and said, “Does it make you feel bad
to be named out of spite?”
I said, no. no, it makes me feel PROUD.
I never said that before but its true,
I was proud of my mother
for being such an asshole.
and I kept going.
from beginning to end because I think we all can agree
I like to tell stories.
and when I was done telling it all
he kissed me anyway
carried me, yes carried me, into his bedroom
while I shrieked: WHAT ARE YOU DOING???
and he was taller than I thought, now that we were standing
face to face and god, he was so normal and gorgeous
except for all those long winded jokes he told that I didn’t understand
and when he shut off the lights,
I vaguely thought about that ex boyfriend
who had sent me a letter that bitterly read,
“You’ll always be more intrigued by whether or not
a guy wants to fuck you instead of love you.”
and how I got so upset didn’t talk to him for a week
because I was ashamed that he might be right.