I know that is what I, designated as her significant other, am supposed to say. I know even a person dating someone who looks like they fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down would say the focus of their love is attractive. I know that the saying “love is blind” is a direct reflection on this, and that everyone has beer goggles when it comes to their girlfriend, boyfriend, husband or wife.
That’s great and I’m glad people can delude themselves into happiness, or whatever. C really is, by any objective standard, super good looking
My ex-wife once gave C the best and coolest compliment I’ve ever heard. She meant it sincerely and said it completely without snark or sarcasm.
“You guys are perfect for each other,” my ex-wife said. “You like comic books and she looks like she should be in one.”
I have literally seen people be checking her out so intensely that they have run into trees. It has happened twice and that’s just the times I know about. I’ve mentioned before that people everywhere always want to talk to her. Bartenders take her orders. Waiters bend over backwards to be accommodating. It’s amazing.
I’m used to men fawning over her. I’m used to people, even people who otherwise like me, jokingly-but-not-really commenting how terrible it would be if something happened to me. I’m used to a lot of men being interested in stealing her away.
I’ve never been accused of lacking confidence. I feel certain that she and I have a great thing, and I know that she knows it. I don’t worry about us. I certainly don’t worry about any of these other guys.
One guy has emerged who seems dead set on giving me problems. He is charming. He is intelligent. He is polite. He is young and handsome. He is persistent .He is constantly dropping by the house at all hours of the day and night.
He is R, our seven year old next door neighbor and T2’s best friend.
R is great. He’s an extremely nice kid and I really like him. He is well mannered, sensitive and, as I believe I have described him, erudite. He’s got a thing for my woman.
He just came into the house. What just happened is what always happens.
“Hey Patrick,” he said, flopping down on the couch between T2 and Starbuck. I know what’s coming next. “Where’s Miss C?”
“She’s not here,” I said. His disappointment is unmistakable. His shoulders can droop substantially for someone who weighs less than my dog.
“She’ll be back in a few minutes though.”
“Oh!,” now lighting up but trying to be cool, “good. Good.”
R’s mom told us that R was talking about C again this morning at breakfast. According to him her hair is beautiful and she is as least as tall as the tree at the bus stop.
“Or,” as his mom said, “about seven or eight feet tall.”
His parents are wonderful. Good neighbors and good friends. R and T2 shuffle back and forth between our two places. Sleepovers are common. They can call us if they are running late and need someone to watch R and we can do the same with T2. Except for the fact their son wants me dead, we are lucky to be living next to them.
I’m writing this because if I want people to know about it in the event of my untimely death. If I die under mysterious circumstances. If I am in an accident. If I eat something that later makes me sick and kills me. If I get hit by a bolt of lightning.
If any of these things happen, if I fall down a flight of stairs or I’m in the shower and get eaten by a shark, I need someone to speak for me. Tell the police that they need to take a long look at R.
Don’t be fooled by the fact he is wearing blue knee socks with frogs on them. Sometimes…sometimes I catch him looking at me. Sizing me up. Planning. Rubbing his little hands together and raising an eyebrow in my direction when he thinks I’m not looking. He’s patient. He knows I am old and he knows he is young and isn’t going anywhere. He’s smart. He’s motivated. And he’s right, she does have beautiful hair.