"Everytime I look at you I start hearing in my head the music you lent me."

:~:

Everyone at the party is drinking and I don't feel like losing myself tonight and he doesn't seem to either. So, we're sitting on a couch talking about Sedona, Arizona and streaking and the "G-Spot" poster on the wall opposite us.

A girl I remember from July orientation is in the bathroom throwing up, a guy has passed out on the seat by to us and his friends are decorating his lifeless body with bits of trash from around the room.

It would be perfect; yet another pittifuly romantic moment in my ongoing affair with the unromatic side of love. Only he's a theatre-type and a girl theatre-type from his floor is sitting on his lap while we talk. And the theatre-types go together; it's mathematical, really. Extroversion needs its balance of course, but always returns to itself.

The evening ends a little after four in the morning in his room. He gives me "Savage/Love" and a collection of other plays to read. I let him keep my copies of "Under the Pink" and "Mer de Noms" longer.