was all clean, and stripped down to our shirts, underwear and socks. She was right. It was definitely a comfortable bed. It was the biggest, fluffiest bed I’ve ever been in. She snuggled me like a teddy bear all night. We didn’t even know each other’s names, but it was one of the nicest moments I’ve ever spent with another person.
The next morning, we introduced ourselves.
“Steve!” she said, hopping out of bed to the kitchen counter, “I hate that name!”
I could see her cocoa nipples through her t-shirt. She must have taken her bra off sometime during the night.
“Sorry . . .” I said.
“Ha-ha!” she said, eating Lucky Charms out of the box.
“When do you want to do this again?” she asked me.
I shrugged.
“Tonight?” she asked.
I nodded, pulling on my pants.
On the way out the door, she said, “Meet you on the bus.”
For three weeks, we slept in the same bed together. We never had sex. We never kissed. We never took off more clothes than our pants. We just dreamed together.
The conversations were brief. We didn’t go on any dates. We didn’t get to know each other. It was just a sleeping arrangement. To her, I was just a stuffed animal with a heartbeat.
But eventually, we started to talk.
I found out her favorite food was stuffed grape leaves and her favorite films were all Russian. She was born in Thailand but was adopted by a wealthy African American couple before she could walk, and spent most of her life in an upscale suburb outside Los Angeles. She spent ten years at the university here in Portland, getting degrees in every subject she could acquire. She wasn’t interested in a career. She just liked learning new things, and her parents paid for everything until she turned thirty. That’s when they cut her off and she had to drop out to get a job. Unfortunately, her degrees in Philosophy, History, Russian, Anthropology, Psychology, and Humanities were useless in the job market, so she worked at one of the hipster clothing stores downtown. That’s when she decided her real passion in life was fashion design, and she’s been saving up her money to go back to school ever since.
“I never went to college,” I told her.
“Never ever?” she asked.
“I was busy trying to be a musician. I sang and played guitar. I wanted to be like Beck or the guy from Soul Coughing. But after 10 years of going nowhere, I gave up. Crowds just didn’t like me. Night clubs stopped booking me for shows. I kept playing my music at open mic night at Produce Row, but eventually quit. I got sick of the lack of applause. I got sick of people ignoring me, talking at their tables like I wasn’t even there. It was just a big waste of time.”
“Did playing your music make you happy?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then it wasn’t a waste of time,” she said.
That’s when I realized I was in love with her.
I didn’t realize she was in love with me for months after that. She always said I was cute and small, but that didn’t prove anything. A terrier is also cute and small, and I wanted her to love me more than she’d love a terrier.
The day I found out she loved me was the first day we made love. We were walking in the park blocks, down by the art museum, talking about music. She told me she wanted to build a theremin and start a band. I asked if I could be in her band. She said no. She wanted to play Schubert and Debussy on the theremin, and said that I wouldn’t fit in. Then we talked about how she planned to give a theremin rendition of Death and the Maiden, and how she wanted to incorporate it into bondage performance.
As we were walking, we passed a grubby homeless man. Probably forty years old, sleeping on a park bench, shivering, wet. I recognized him. His name was Donut. Or at least I’ve heard his friends address him as Donut. Without thinking, I took off my coat and wrapped it around him. It was odd, because I haven’t even given change to the homeless in years. When I
The next morning, we introduced ourselves.
“Steve!” she said, hopping out of bed to the kitchen counter, “I hate that name!”
I could see her cocoa nipples through her t-shirt. She must have taken her bra off sometime during the night.
“Sorry . . .” I said.
“Ha-ha!” she said, eating Lucky Charms out of the box.
“When do you want to do this again?” she asked me.
I shrugged.
“Tonight?” she asked.
I nodded, pulling on my pants.
On the way out the door, she said, “Meet you on the bus.”
For three weeks, we slept in the same bed together. We never had sex. We never kissed. We never took off more clothes than our pants. We just dreamed together.
The conversations were brief. We didn’t go on any dates. We didn’t get to know each other. It was just a sleeping arrangement. To her, I was just a stuffed animal with a heartbeat.
But eventually, we started to talk.
I found out her favorite food was stuffed grape leaves and her favorite films were all Russian. She was born in Thailand but was adopted by a wealthy African American couple before she could walk, and spent most of her life in an upscale suburb outside Los Angeles. She spent ten years at the university here in Portland, getting degrees in every subject she could acquire. She wasn’t interested in a career. She just liked learning new things, and her parents paid for everything until she turned thirty. That’s when they cut her off and she had to drop out to get a job. Unfortunately, her degrees in Philosophy, History, Russian, Anthropology, Psychology, and Humanities were useless in the job market, so she worked at one of the hipster clothing stores downtown. That’s when she decided her real passion in life was fashion design, and she’s been saving up her money to go back to school ever since.
“I never went to college,” I told her.
“Never ever?” she asked.
“I was busy trying to be a musician. I sang and played guitar. I wanted to be like Beck or the guy from Soul Coughing. But after 10 years of going nowhere, I gave up. Crowds just didn’t like me. Night clubs stopped booking me for shows. I kept playing my music at open mic night at Produce Row, but eventually quit. I got sick of the lack of applause. I got sick of people ignoring me, talking at their tables like I wasn’t even there. It was just a big waste of time.”
“Did playing your music make you happy?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then it wasn’t a waste of time,” she said.
That’s when I realized I was in love with her.
I didn’t realize she was in love with me for months after that. She always said I was cute and small, but that didn’t prove anything. A terrier is also cute and small, and I wanted her to love me more than she’d love a terrier.
The day I found out she loved me was the first day we made love. We were walking in the park blocks, down by the art museum, talking about music. She told me she wanted to build a theremin and start a band. I asked if I could be in her band. She said no. She wanted to play Schubert and Debussy on the theremin, and said that I wouldn’t fit in. Then we talked about how she planned to give a theremin rendition of Death and the Maiden, and how she wanted to incorporate it into bondage performance.
As we were walking, we passed a grubby homeless man. Probably forty years old, sleeping on a park bench, shivering, wet. I recognized him. His name was Donut. Or at least I’ve heard his friends address him as Donut. Without thinking, I took off my coat and wrapped it around him. It was odd, because I haven’t even given change to the homeless in years. When I
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