While driving westward on Storrow into the 5 o'clock sun, I noticed I could almost not see the road through the mess of dried water droplets and streaky handprints on the inside of the front window.
"Hey. Remember that entry I wrote about the ridiculous long kiss?" I asked him, laughing.He looked where I was gesturing, and replied:
"You mean we're seeing the remnants of your make-out session on the windshield?"(We were. I had wiped the steam off before driving home so I could see out. In that pattern it thusly dried, seemingly for eternity.)
Last night after the gym, I stopped at the Tam on Tremont to meet Joshua.
So the definition of an acceptable Monday night is this: hanging at a dive bar with a best friend, drinking Narrangansett tall-boys, and watching Texas donut-hole the Yankees. Then, after getting up-to-date on the newest details about his upcoming wedding, heading to the back of the bar .... for to kick his butt in Ms. Pac-Man.
(OK. It was only a little kicking. I won. But it was close.)
I didn't grow up with brothers. I didn't have close guy friends in high school. And I was too nervous to relax enough to have them, either, in college.
Even if my focus now is (or should be? must be?) finding men to date, I've been reminded that it isn't a waste of time to spend it with men who I'm not.