You volunteered to come over with groceries and make me dinner. And not even because I am broke and living in squalor, which has compelled past suitors to fill my freezer. That’s not a euphemism. I came home from work once to find a one-night-stand filling my freezer with some off-brand mcrib type meat product that I never ate. Even in my broken, depressive, squalor that shit skeeved me out.
Your offer is a generous one. I say yes. I take one Imodium before you get here. We don’t know each other well enough for me to shit my pants in front of you. My place is too small for you to not realize I’m shitting my brains out. So, I take this prophylactic half dose.
After thirty, Imodium is just as important to dating as condoms are.
Because intimacy skeeves me out only slightly less than mystery, frozen meat product, after you cook and we eat and it’s all delicious and adorable, I ask if you want to watch my favorite episode of RHONY. I am nervous because this will tell you just how terrible of a person I am. I hope you like me anyway. But really, I hope you are just as terrible of a person as I am and like me more because this is my favorite episode.
Because you are sincere and enthusiastic with your yes, when I sit back down on the couch, I sit closer to you. We both like laughing at trainwrecks. You can build a relationship on that, yeah?
Making it through the episode takes some work. If I had to guess, we watch at least 72 ankylosing spondylitis commercials, because my core aesthetic--that of virtuous, Catholic, Midwestern suffering--won’t let me pay for Hulu without commercials. But you laugh at them with me and aren’t annoyed, so I scoot closer to you.
By the time Aviva throws her leg, your head is on my shoulder, and we’re snuggled up. Of all the times I’ve seen Aviva throw her leg, this is my favorite, because when we finally stop laughing, you kiss me.