I went out with a boy on Wednesday.
The boy was off work early, and so was I. We met in the afternoon at Lauriol Plaza for swirl margaritas in honor of Cinco de Mayo.
He was boisterous and animated, as usual. He talked to everyone around us, including a couple of girls.
**I wasn't crazy about that.
The boy left the bar area for a minute or two.
"Is that your boyfriend?" one of the girls asked.
I shook my head. "No."
"Is he always like that?" the other asked.
"Yeah, pretty much," I said. "He can talk to anyone."
"All he did was talk about you," the first girl said.
**I was crazy about that.
The boy came back. Somehow, we partied with a reality TV star. The details are fuzzy. Tequila shots were involved.
The boy was hell-bent on finding a sombrero and persuaded the reality star to walk six blocks down U Street with us to get one at Alero.
En route, the boy turned to me.
"Did it bother you when I was talking to those other girls?"
"A little," I said.
"Don't worry," he said, taking my hand. "I know who I came here with."
**I was crazier about that.
Alero was packed. The reality star left. The boy and I went to Dodge City. We had beers. I updated my Facebook status to an embarrassing degree. My judgment was clouded by a thick fog of alcohol and infatuation.
Actually, "infatuation" is the wrong word. Infatuation doesn't even come close.
Captivated, enraptured, smitten. Those are better.
I was starving. So was the boy. We cabbed to the Mount Vernon Triangle Busboys and Poets and got food.
It was open mic night. The boy performed a poem.
Smitten. That's the word. Yes, definitely smitten.
It was late. We'd long since run out of daylight. The boy drove me home...
And I woke up in his arms.
That boy makes me happy...
That boy was John.