TGSNT, Part 3.
No sooner had D crashed on a mattress in Jen's back room than a
nigh-mythical transformation occurred. Perhaps it was the healing power of
toothpaste, but she was suddenly awake, alert, and terribly fond of
physical affection.
Now, by the light of the day, yours truly was something of an
anthropological curiosity, I must confess. I was six feet and seven inches
of pure, unadulterated cool...from my mellow Shore Haven Afro, the Elvis
Costello glasses, terminal purple paisley shirt, jean shorts (well, at
least those were normal), to the bucked-down two-year-old docksiders with
more mileage than they were ever meant to take. Still, I carried myself
well, and I'd like to think I've always been a friendly sort, which can
compensate for my aesthetic (or at least stylistic) shortcomings. I'd like
to think a lot of things, but I know that most of them simply aren't true.
In the dark, I felt like Prince before Lovesexy tanked. It got hot, it got
sweaty, and I'm amazed there weren't ambulances. Some nights, I'll admit I
still think of those days, and the Kilimanjaro of those memories is that
party. The trouble with such romantic notions, though, is that you forget
the fear.
What was there to be afraid of, you must wonder?
How does the SCSU Fighting Owls baseball team, led by D's ex, sound?
It sounded like a knock on the bedroom door, at the time.