Date a man who skateboards.
Date a man whose arrival is announced by the crunching of wheels on tarmac, the crack of 7-ply on kerbstone, and the rattling of bearing casings on axels.
Date a man whose first association with four wheels was begging his parents for a complete, and who is still embarrassed that its inaugural outing was accompanied by wrist guards and kneepads. Date a man who spent his school holidays at disused carparks and soulless public promenades acquiring scabbed knuckles and bruised knees.
Find him at the park on early summer mornings and late summer nights, practicing in a state of focused solitude that he will attempt to disguise as restless nonchalance. Keep your distance but watch carefully; follow the repositioning of his stance and the rhythm of his breathing. Trace his lines of sight as they perpetually fall several yards ahead.
Learn to appreciate the camber of a bowl. Admire his agile responses to its poured curves and hope that one day he will caress yours with as attentive a touch.
Date a man who understands that the devil is in the details; that eighth of an inch of riser, that quarter of an inch of deck width. Date a man who feels these measurements in his very bones, and who knows that their very preservation relies on these invisible specifics.
Date a man who believes that he is unbreakable, who is acquainted with the feeling of fractured fibulas and shredded skin and yet is not deterred. Palms. Ankles. Elbows. Date a man who looks upon scars as long-lost friends and introduces them to you as such.
You will become accustomed to a new language. Vowels and consonants will be reformed as abstracts that appear in part both descriptive and onomatopoeic. Like ancient prayers you will hear him repeat them to himself: If only he had landed that ñ . If only he hadnít fucked up that ñ .
Care for him, but not too closely. Begin to understand when to toss him a cold beer to quench his thirst and when to use it as a make-shift icepack. Learn to nurse his pride back to full health by never openly recognising its existence.
Date a man who watches tour edits as if they are poetry; to him, they are poetry. His world is mapped out by marble-edged stairways, concrete monuments, steel railings. When you travel, look at foreign cities through his eyes. Wander through a maze of obstacles that will have been learned a million times from video games and Youtube footage, now rendered into reality and waiting to be traversed.
His understanding of authenticity will be second to none; he will hunt out deadstock Fuct t-shirts and Thrasher back-issues but will still be cautious whenever Nike SB is mentioned (even though the P-Rod is a solid shoe). Date a man who knows the difference between Lords of Dogtown and Dogtown and Z-boys, but who still acknowledges that Emile Hirsch did a good job.
Date a man whose ideas of love are founded upon Ed and Deanna Templeton. He understands the weight of the emotion more than the man whose contentment comes from weeknight American sitcoms, and its modern reality far more than one who is well-versed in Keats. He knows life-long passion and inherent imperfection, and will be sympathetic towards each as they rear their domineering heads in your person and his own.
Wake up alone on Sundays. As you come to, listen for a silence that signifies a lack of raindrops. Feel relieved understanding wash over you as you catch sight of the now-vacant space that is reserved for two-and-a-half feet of wood, metal and polyurethane. Be patient, and glow inwardly when you begin to hear the approaching clamour of your lover’s return.