My boyfriend's name is Jake. He's an editor; I'm a writer. We've been in a relationship for almost five years. He's more mature than I am, but no less quirky. In fact, as I consider it, he might have me beat.
First, Jake refuses to drink seltzer water. It's my general beverage of choice, but that's not why I mind. He says, "The bubbles hold promise of a taste that it fails to deliver." What does that mean?
When Jake shops for an over-the-counter cold remedy, a product's medicinal properties must match his symptoms exactly. Labels are examined, pharmacists questioned, factors weighed. Amused, I bear witness, wishing I'd packed a lunch.
Long ago (I'm sorry, Jake) Jake told me that he doesn't like beans. When I pursued it, he zeroed in on their texture. The way they "explode in his mouth," was how he put it. Cry me a river, I thought. But at least I know he's not gay.
My gifts from Jake often come wrapped in color images of William Shatner.
That's all I'll say about that.
If Jake really wants to inflame me, he says that my cat, Kylie, doesn't know her name.
KYLIE KNOWS HER FUCKING NAME.
In this age of social media and the Internet, Jake guards his privacy. His sole involvement is having nineteen friends on Facebook, and he sweats even that. Imagine his surprise when, after one erroneous click, he acquired a follower on Pinterest.
Kidding, I once said to Jake, "I don't know you at all." He responded, "That's why you sleep with me."
I've also told Jake, "Well. Five years of sleeping with you, an editor, and it's gotten me nowhere."
Sunday mornings often find me and Jake looking up the word, "diaphonous" (we can't seem to retain the definition from week to week) and debating whether "disrespect" can legitimately be used as a verb. Add a dollop of whipped cream and it's like "Fifty Shades of English."
As I said, it's a very strange pod.
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