So we go to the truck stop for a late night meal, and you slide right next to me into the booth instead of sitting across the table from me. I’m so touched by this, I want to write it down, but I don’t have a little notebook in my purse to jot my genius ideas. I can’t meet anyone who’s last name starts with “Y” or “Z”, because I’ve torn out the last few pages of my address book to house said genius. (I mean, I can meet them, but I can’t know their address or phone number.) You put two of your fingers over the “C” and “A” on a pack of Camels, leaving only “MEL”, and tell me that’s why you smoke them, and still I can never be sure you’re that into me.

As we both sit looking out at the other diners, we talk about strippers. I argue that they’re great, and you then mention the word monogamy. Oh. I thought you were talking about watching them take their clothes off, not fucking them. Somewhere in this you say “Remember the George Michael video?” and I wonder “The one with the supermodels?” but I don’t ask this cause it’s still early enough in the relationship that I don’t want to look too foolish. That’s not the one you were talking about anyway...

I drift into thoughts of supermodels and high school in the early 1990's, and how we wanted to strut through a George Michael video. I would be Christy Turlington, T would be Linda Evangelista, and CR would be Cindy Crawford. Now we’re older and they are too, and I wonder if they hated the transition from ubermodel to elder stateswomen. They are, respectively, 37, 41, and 40 (still older than us, thank god!). They are for the most part domesticated (the most beautiful cats in the world), with husbands and kids, while we seem to adopt men who need to be taken care of, so I guess that’s close.