but missing something crucial,
something substantial.
Summer of women.
Damaged, so keep your cards close.
Semi-hollow heart.
-----
We stay up late, drinking good whiskey. We rise early, drinking black coffee. I make some eggs while she smokes a cigarette out the window. We eat slightly stale muffins from her bakery. She smokes another cigarette as I grab my shit. We don our light jackets and stunner shades. All signs point to "amazing day," so we climb in the whip, roll the windows down and speed towards to the coast.
In fact, we speed a little bit too much. 95 in a 45, as reported by the highway patrol.
"I assure you, officer, I was in complete control of my vehicle. I do not drive recklessly. Can you let me off with a warning?"
He takes his sunglasses off and looks at me, interjecting an awkwardly long pause.
"... Absolutely not. You're goddamn close to a felony driving ticket and I'd tow your car. A warning?" at which point he laughs.
$500. Ouch.
-----
The four of us hike a rough trail around the edge of the lake, the water filled with families in rental boats. No motors allowed, so they slowly and awkwardly paddle around the lake.
On foot, we go off the beaten path. My arms filled with blankets, towels and a plastic bag filled with shitty beer, I stumble over logs and rocks. Eventually, we come across our own private section of sun and sand. We all make an honest effort to swim, but the water is simply frigid. Mostly, we just sit in the sun, drinking the shitty beer, making up conversations that people are having on their boats.
It was meant to be a group campout, but most people flaked, last minute. Ultimately, it ended up being me and three amazing ladies out in the middle of the Willamette National Forest. Word.
When the lake gets old, we pile back in the car. From a spur in the highway, we take a rough service road. We speed through corridors of trees, looking for an unmarked trailhead. We locate it, haphazardly parking the car on the side of the road. We pile out of the car and hit the trail. We climb around the bend and soon, we're on a tight path, hugging the river. The path is treacherous, but we eventually come to a small cave that opens into the river. The cave houses a hotspring, spewing hot water into a pool constructed of piled river rock.
We disrobe and jump in. We soak for as long as we can, mostly sitting in silence. When there's just barely enough light to find out way back, we pick up our clothes, stumbling back to the car.
Backseat. Window down, I rest my head on the window sill. Wind in my hair, moon in the air, I find the first real smile I've had in a long time.
-----
I don't know a soul at the wedding, but I know it's going to be pretty formal, so I want to look good. My old clothes don't fit anymore, so I buy an entirely new ensemble. Tailored by my coworker's wife, I look fresh. For the first time, in like ever, I don't feel like I'm wearing a dad suit -- I feel fuckin' handsome.
We arrive a few minutes before the ceremony. Still sitting in the car, she pulls out a flask of vodka and a can of San Pellegrino and we hurriedly alternate the beverages between us. We take our seats as the ceremony starts. Long. And deeply religious. And awful music. Eventually, it ends and everyone makes their way from the open field to the reception area, where an open bar awaits.
We eat, drink and have a generally ridiculous time. After the food settles, the dancefloor starts filling in. Being drunk, and not knowing not a single person there, my inhibitions are lowered dramatically. I proceed to dance my ass off. With my date. With middle-aged women. With whoever else. I'm a machine.
I'm sweaty and my cheeks hurt from laughing, so I excuse myself from the dance floor for some water. I choose lemonade instead. Looking through the crowd, I catch eyes with my date. She smiles, then gives me a look that I haven't seen a woman make in a long time. I pause, slowly taking another sip of lemonade. Setting the drink down, I start walking back, just as the DJ cuts to "PYT."
I throw my hands up, laughing.
Perfect timing.
-----
On a sweaty Portland Friday, we convene on the west side. The equation is simple: bikes, booze and photobooths. We start on the west, working our way east, on bike, hitting up every bar in town that has a photobooth.
Embarrassingly enough, I haven't ridden a bike in bike in years. I don't even own one. My friend lent me one of his spare steeds -- an old, heavy fixed gear with a loose chain. Downtown traffic is out of control, and there are a few times where I probably came pretty close to serious injury, but I manage to play it cool.
As we finish our second drink, I open my bag and pull out a few packages of fake mustaches. I purchased them the night before, while shopping for a bike light: the toy section is right beside the cycles. I only know a few people in the crew, but the mustaches, they make me a hero. Everyone, both men and women, picked their 'stache and proudly wore it for the rest of the night.
More drinks. More pedaling. More bars. We cross the Burnside bridge. My legs on fire, I slow down a bit, gazing over the city. My city.
I look to my left. A petite woman rolls along beside me, her giant fake mustache billowing in the wind.
"This is an amazing place, isn't it?" she says.
-----
Fuck everything about you.
We walk towards the beach and get sidetracked by the aquarium. We pay the fee and meander around. I convince her to touch sea cucumber in the touching pool, letting out a light moan when she does. She splashes me. We get grossed out by the eels and feel sad for the seals. It's dingy, humid and depressing.
Exiting through the aquarium gift shop, she lights a cigarette. "So, you want season passes for your birthday, right?" she asks.
It was a beautiful day. Thusly, the masses were out, clogging the sidewalks and shops of the shitty town. We maneuvered through the swarms of families and eventually made it down to the beach. I'm walking in front, a bit aimlessly, dragging a stick through the sand. She trails behind.
We slosh way out into the cold water. I tell her to close her eyes as I produce two beers from my backpack. I put one in her hand and her face lights up.
I twist the cap on my bottle. Suddenly, I'm supremely bummed: not twist offs. What?!
She laughs. Hard. "Close your eyes and hold out your hand" she says.
I oblige. She places something in my palm, wrapping my fingers around it. She grabs my hips and playfully pushes me back. I open my hand to find a bottle opener that reads "Just Beachy." Upon closer inspection, It still has a pricetag on it. "Where'd you get this?" I say, immediately realizing that she had lifted it from the aquarium giftshop.
A red flag against a brief flash of fireworks.
-----
We perched on a brick wall in Pioneer square, watching Explosions in the Sky deliver an incredible set. The sun had just set, a slightly visible moon hanging in the air above the stage. Aside from introductions, not a word was spoken from the band. The songs, in that setting, in that moment, carried immense weight. Blisteringly loud, I could almost picture the waves rolling over the crowd. Between songs, the sea of people barely make a peep. A genuine treat.
The woman next to me, among the others, she's special: intelligent, perceptive, beautiful, kind and possesses an uncanny sense of wonder. She's close to being a model human. She clearly has feelings for me. I've done the arithmetic and it looks perfect.
On paper.
In reality, I feel nothing. I've checked and rechecked the numbers. By all indications, I should be falling madly in love with her.
But I'm not. At all. In the least.
And then I'm reminded of something someone once told me, ages ago, in another life: "You don't choose who you love."
-----
She tears her french fries in half before she eats them. She lists Zappa in top 5 of all-things-ever. She is beautiful. She plays the ukelele. A medical student. Sharp as needles with a cutting wit. Refreshing.
We shut the bar down. She lives a few blocks away, so she walks me to my car. I had illegally parked in a medical center lot. By the time we arrived, the lot was desolate, save for my car. A half-functional streetlamp cast our long, misshapen shadows across the ground. She stood close, head on, rarely breaking eye-contact. Insanely intimidating. Challenging.
"If you could play any song right now, what would it be?" I ask.
"Enya. Orinoco Flow. Obviously." She answers, without hesitation.
"Dang, that makes me want a Crystal Light..." I respond.
"So fucking Pavlovian" she says.
Discourse alone, my heart skips a beat. A moment of tension. Then she kisses me.
A quick spark, somewhere deep in my chest -- a feeling that I long suspected I was incapable of.
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