As the fog climbed up the shower’s glass door, I thought of an adventure I had. On our first date, we left Vegas at sunset. Her shirt was red and polka-dotted and she smelled strongly of her sandalwood hand lotion. The moon just hung around us throughout the drive, and I sometimes think that it would have been better to pull over the car right away rather than wait to kiss her when we parked at the movie theater in L.A. But the memory’s a pleasant one after all this time, so there’s no sense in ‘if onlys.’ We made it in time for the previews, and after the movie we ate at a Lebanese restaurant at two in the morning. I have not since eaten at a Lebanese restaurant at two in the morning. On the drive back, she fell asleep on my arm, not just holding my hand but hugging it. How could I possibly move it away, safety hazards notwithstanding? I think that’s when my hand became conditioned to always, always hold a significant other’s when in a car. I was nodding off, changing songs on the iPod, feeding myself Starbursts and taking sips of soda, all one-handed. The symmetry may seem phony, but I dropped her off at her car back in Vegas at sunrise. Though the air beyond the bathroom has been lacking in adventure, nothing is empty here.
Tagged: l.a.
