Twice in the last month, I’ve spent entire days doing absolutely nothing—except being wrapped up in a bed, couch, or dining room table with a man. My phone ceases to exist, school gets tossed out the window, and for a day I get to be blissfully ignorant of all the things I should be doing. Instead, I’m playing Scrabble, trying to rationally use all seven vowels I somehow managed to pull from the bag. Clearly, I’ve got some very important fish to fry.
And today, in the midst of making breakfast at 1 p.m., I did indeed make the perfect pancake…and I mean perfect. Perfectly circular, perfectly golden brown, and perfectly fluffy all around. UGH, it was so beautiful I could cry. Even more shocking: all five pancakes came out that way.
We ate them on my balcony, watching traffic crawl by while the trees swayed in the wind. Syrup dribbled down my tank top, and for a moment it felt like life simply couldn’t get better. I don’t even remember the last time I had pancakes—or real maple syrup. Life truly is sweet (pun absolutely intended).
The worst part of spending a day practically inseparable from someone is when they leave the withdrawal hits and the oxytocin disappears. That damn feel-good drug…do be feeling pretty fucking good. I had forgotten just how good it feels until I realized I’d fallen asleep, cradled like a baby in this man’s arms.
“This man” is not a good name for him, so we will call him “Boat Boy.” That’s actually the nickname I have in my phone for him. Anyways, I’m still getting to know Boat Boy—and I think I’d like to keep it that way.