Hard Rock Socks

I bought you socks at the Las Vegas Hard Rock Cafe.

I never mentioned them, but I did. I was going to bring them on our next date as a surprise. They are goofy, just like you. They are tropical themed with a tacky Hard Rock emblem. They reminded me of your various silly socks that we would laugh at while watching movies on my couch.

Were the moose ones on Hunchback of Notre Dame night? I don't think they were the x-ray ones. Those came later, right?

Anyway, now the socks sit stowed away somewhere Catherine selected, and there they will remain until I inevitably find them a year from now at the bottom of some bag or box in my hall closet. By then I am sure I will be happy to see them.

I am keeping the strawberry Nesquik bottle on my desk, no question. I don't think I ever told you I kept it, but I did. It was the first one, the one from Texas-sized turkey leg night. Washing down the turkey with strawberry milk was not the most exquisite flavor profile I have ever encountered, but both were surprises. Both were lovely.

You had so many lovely surprises, including but not limited to the Nesquiks, your insistence on opening my car door for me, and the Kit-Kat I had for breakfast with my coffee one morning after you left.

You shocked me by beating me at my own card game because you told me my smile was beautiful in the middle of it. You distracted me, and I will say you cheated until the day I die.

You surprised me when you slowly pulled my mask down to kiss me for the first time next to my car; as you walked away, an old man in his car gave me two thumbs up. I don't think I told you he did that, but he did.

You surprised me with the Lunchables. Ah, the Lunchables. My personality test puts both Myers and Briggs to shame. You know it. I know it. We all know it. You are definitely a room-temperature, classic pizza kind of guy. Fun, easily adaptable, and reliable. Always there for a good time.

But not a long time. No, you warned me about that, how much time you could give. What I still do not understand is all the time you gave me that I never asked for. I never asked you to regularly cold-call me just to hear about my day. I never asked you to regularly sleep by my side. I never asked you to drive at least an hour to see me nearly every weekend.

I offered to meet you half-way.

I wanted to meet you half-way.

Half-way just isn't who you are, though, is it? I know you to be someone who cannot half-ass anything. You whole-ass everything you do. You can't help it, and I don't want you to.

To be clear, I thought all of the above were completely precious. Your calls, your commute, your patience with a codependent 80 lb dog. Your dumb-ass socks. Your gravity-defying hair. Your little dove tattoo. All of it. Yes, even the many, many puns.

You just couldn't half-ass us, which at the end of the day I find most precious about you. I was ready to do that for a good while longer, but you were right. It would not have been wise trying to whole-ass our dynamic; we both have too much we need to do for ourselves. Doing that would have been selfish, and it would have been a disservice to us both in the long run. We distract each other. We consume each other’s time. I know that, and I know you have only ever been logical, kind, and considerate.

I hate that.

So now we are zero-assing us, and, to be honest, that sucks. It's for the best, sure, but it sucks nevertheless. And it will suck for a hot minute for me. I hope it sucks for only a hot 50-seconds or so for you.

After that minute, I know I will be just fine. Better, actually, after having you in my life. You created a new standard that most men I meet after you will likely curse. I don't think you knew that was what you were doing for me, but you did. You were always a gentleman, and let me tell you: I have known few gentle men.

For that, I cannot thank you enough.

I told you I hate saying goodbye, and, by George, I meant it. So I will leave you with this: I will miss your gentle, silly self. Most days, I will hear "Evil Deeds" and chuckle. Other days, I will hear "Are You Lonesome Tonight" and get all bluesy before writing something like this, probably. It's what I do. I know, though, that I will miss you most when I find those Hard Rock socks.

I bet they are with the damned light bulbs.