I first learned to dance when I was drunk. It involved a girl named Cecily.
I’d never really been one to dance.
Cecily and I were the best of times and the worst of times. When I first saw her, she’d attended a meeting for a group on campus set up explicitly for meeting girls. Our public manifesto clinged to some concept of art, but any artist who claims to not aim to get laid is a fraud.
So, there she was. Young, possessed of some mutant cuteness barely rivalled by my own. My best friend and I made a bet over who would win her, and I won.
It’s no surprise. She and I possess a preternatural comfort with one another. Yet, at the same time, both scared, hurt, and xxx we formed an odd commitment-phobic alliance: default Friday night dating companions. If one had no one better to spend time with on Friday nights, then it was agreed we would hang out by default.
Of course this didn’t stop us from the myriad gropings, drunken cuddlings, and making out that form the hallmark of American youth.