Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Like Letter #1

Andy,

You can relax. I’m not going to say anything I haven’t already said. But I’m putting it in writing so I can remember how this started.

Last night you said, “Ask me a question.” I squirmed in the dark and moaned, “Why? I’m about to crash.” You said, “Because I want to know you better.” So I sighed into the pillow and mumbled, “Okay.” Then we volleyed questions and answers back and forth until we drifted off to sleep. That’s all I can think about this morning. It’s a little vignette I can roll around in my head and smirk over. And even though it happened in the darkness of your bedroom around midnight and my eyes were closed the entire time, the memory is colorful. I want to keep it vivid and spectacular and I want to see it from every angle. I might have been tired, but in those few minutes before sleep, I had just enough energy to appreciate how we got here.

You needed a website for your mom and dad’s company, so you contacted my agency and set up a consultation. My co-worker Aaron asked if I wanted to sit-in on a potential new business meeting, so I snatched up my padfolio and sauntered over to the conference room. That’s where I first saw you. You were tall and skinny, and not my type. Still, I found it difficult to look you in the eyes. I felt compelled to make you like me, so I seized every available opportunity to make you laugh. And when the meeting came to a close, I handed you my card and shook your hand. Then, I returned to my desk and waited for your email requesting a follow-up meeting. Two hours later, my phone bleeped and I saw a text message from an unknown number that read, “It was nice meeting you.”

Halfway though our first date, I felt the spark. I felt it in my stomach and on my skin. It was the kind of feeling you hear the Best Man describe at a rehearsal diner. The sensation that — when you listen to someone else explain — sounds mythic and elusive. But there it was; circulating through me while I watched you try to smile with half a shrimp poboy hanging out your mouth. Full disclosure: I’ve felt the spark before. But it didn’t feel like that one. And the sentiment was only muffled by the voice in my head saying, So this is what it’s like and He’s the guy.

I’ve experienced whirlwind romances before. They’re all ego, and reckless behavior, and insecurity, and white-hot passion that needs to be kept over a flame or else it frosts over. This isn’t like that.

It’s different. You’re different. And not just because you have that weird thumb deformity.

You’re too good to be true, and I would never say that to someone or put it out there for the entire world to see, but this isn’t just a story for my blog. Speaking of my blog: I will continue writing about my dick, and other peoples’ dicks, and stories that make good stories, because I don’t take any behavioral meds and I don’t go to therapy, and this seems to work for me.

My best friends are waiting for me to get bored and my mom is crossing her fingers and lighting a St. Jude candle on her nightstand. As for me, I like you. But the like is deep and roomy, with enough space for you to teach me to speak French and for me to teach you how to dance.

Like,
Ryan

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