Okay, yes, I craved the usual things. Candy and freedom and beautiful women. But I never craved a specific, beautiful woman. And once I was old enough to flirt, well, I didn't have any trouble attracting women.
Add the tattoos and the freckles and the ability to cop my grandmas' accent (a lot of women have a thing for Irish guys, for some reason), and, well… I always knew I could find someone if I was so inclined.
Even when I had girlfriends, monogamous relationships, I knew those women were interested in me. I knew we'd get together and enjoy each other soon enough. I didn't crave them. Or savor their touch. Or feel an intense need to text them right away, to demand pictures.
With Imogen?
I need to respond to her offer, to tease her, to test her, to adore her.
All morning, my cell burns a hole in my pocket. I make it all the way to work, and through set up, before I give in to my desire to reach her.
Patrick: Not tonight. Today. Text me when you're ready.
She replies right away.
Imogen: I don't see the word please.
Patrick: Are you free?
Imogen: Leaving class.
Patrick: Going to swim laps?
Imogen: Maybe. Maybe not.
Patrick: A picture of you in your practice suit says yes.
Imogen: What if I'm not going? What do I get?
Patrick: A picture of me in your practice suit.
Imogen: You'll stretch it out.
Patrick: Brutal.
Imogen: Do you have any idea how quickly I run through these?
Patrick: Are you always this pragmatic?
Imogen: Yes.
There's another side to her too. The girl who wonders about my dog-eared copy ofThe Bell Jar.
But, hey, I'm not going there.
This isn't a time for ugly things.
This is the most beautiful thing in the world.
Patrick: How about a picture of me in my swimsuit?
Imogen: Deal.
Patrick: Deal.
She sends a handshake emoji.
I reply with one.