It started with an Otis Redding tape. The rain was relentless and I could sense I was looking for company. When I came home from work, I found my spot on the couch. There was no one I really wanted to call, but I knew he would want to come over.
There was Chinese food and Black Sabbath in the living room. He knocked on my door an hour later, drunk and perspired.
“Looks like you’ve had a rough day,” I said.
He looked at me like I just kicked a puppy.
“I’ve been drinking since ten this morning.”
My mind became foggy and un-attracted, so I asked if he wanted a beer.
I went to the kitchen and did not want to leave.
He was sitting on my couch in 12-hour clothes. The smell of grease, sweat and booze absorbing the air.
I put on a movie and kept the lights on, hoping for a more sobering experience. When he announced he wanted to try to kiss me on the mouth later, I said nothing and stared at the television.
I could feel his eyes pausing toward me.
“What?” I said.
“You keep rolling your eyes at me,” he said. “It’s hurting my feelings.”
What would Marty McFly Do?
I tried to explain I had no idea how I was hurting his feelings. I just wanted to hang out and watch a movie. He takes off his purpled rimmed glasses and asks if I want to make out.
“Not really,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
There was only an awkward silence and Back to the Future III.
I get up to go to the bathroom and when I come back the front door is slightly ajar. He is puking into the bushes of the house I’ve lived in for five days.
Before I could get a hold of a cab company, he passed out on my couch.
He apologized in the morning, consistently calling me ‘dude.’
His cab was parked on the opposite side of the street. We high-fived and I went back to bed.