He liked Lars Von Trier and wanted to watch Dancer In The Dark.
He wrote a touching short story about a refrigerator.
He bought me too many drinks.
He took me to see a hack comedian who joked that waiting too long for sex makes you as appealing as a week-old doughnut.
He was gentle and shy and needed to be loved.
He flattered me persistently for months.
He was old and fat, and I was fascinated by his unmerited ego.
He was hilarious and wonderful to look at and wore ridiculous corduroy pants despite the August heat.
He smelled of sandalwood.
He had an Alabamian accent and pecs for days.
He traveled the world and wrote a novel and had two divergent, simultaneous careers and studied coffee roasting in Italy and introduced me to David Lynch and always wore a bandana and had this funny habit of holding a glass in front of his mouth when he spoke.
He had a beautiful body.
He seemed to like me and hate me at the same time.
He was friends with the best friend I was slowly falling in love with, and he was available and willing.
He did this funny chicken dance and invited me to watch kung fu.
He wanted to have earnest conversations about white male privilege.
He was popular and invited me into the world of cool kids who listened to interesting music and went to fun parties and were beautiful and stylish and important.
He had long hair, loved his mama, and smiled in a way that said, “I understand and appreciate you, darling girl.”
He was more enthusiastic than anyone.
He had amazing kids and talked about them as if they were national treasures.
He taught me how to smoke a cigar.
He cooked a gorgeous meal with multiple courses, including a cheese and olive plate, then took me on a walk along the river where the air was thick and the sky had that gray-green light it gets just before a summer storm.
He was kind.