It’s hot. My grey tank has become another layer of skin. I run my hand through my short, cropped hair, taking a deep breath as I push forward. The only other sound on the quiet, remote trail is buzzing from some bumblebees. Besides me is Seymour.
It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’ve just returned from the beach. My family is renting a house for a few days in Wildwood, NJ, where they all have fond memories from childhood. I just need to know where all of the local Wawas are.
Last week, I visited my old roommate Emily in Baltimore. Emily and her boyfriend, Keith, purchased a historic row home not too far from Patterson Park. Baltimore is the gritty, creative yet athletic man of your dreams.
I met the witty, intelligent Sandra during my New Year’s trip to Iceland. Morrie and I spent a night with her in Norfolk, envying her Carrie Bradshaw-esque city apartment and access to an artsy, waterfront downtown.
“Matt, smile.” I hold my phone at a different angle, cutting out my face. Tess smiles and Matt glances over. “Let’s do another one,” I say. We try again. Matt’s face is even more awkward. “Matt doesn’t need to be in the picture,” Tess decides.
When I started writing this post, it was very different. I wrote very defensively, as I have in the past, about why I haven’t seriously dated anyone in two years. Or at least, why I thought I haven’t seriously dated anyone in two years.
Long, brown hair lazily tied into a ponytail. She giggles, cautiously pulling the piece of fermented shark off the decorative Icelandic flag toothpick, and into her mouth. Then immediately shrugs, as if to say, that’s it?