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My hair is in his beard hair; his hair is on my arms.

I meet his roommate while she’s in her bra and we are like this. p.m.: L says he’d like to come to my friend’s St Patrick’s Day gathering that evening.

And yes, they are delicious, but I am fucking hungry, and I don’t care about stars or small bites of food. We are slightly drunk, and when we arrive, there are firetrucks and sirens and smoke and a crowd of people standing on the sidewalk. A man stands with his dog, watching the scene, and I bend down to pet him. I understand because I feel the same way. p.m.: We make the trek to the party empty handed and up a large hill. p.m.: I introduce L as my friend and grab us beers from the bathtub.

I want something with substance—meat, a steak, a baked potato dripping with butter and cream. p.m.: We detour to go to a market in North Beach for wine. He asks the hostess for a cigarette and thinks it’s funny to pretend the Holocaust didn’t happen.

Usually, I am conservative about bringing people into my social circles, but I have had a lot of wine from a plastic mug; and I’m wearing sweatpants; and restricting oneself can be awfully exhausting, so I decide it is all right. p.m.: It’s dark now, and we leave to find food in Chinatown before the party.

L insists on going to a Michelin-star restaurant and sitting at the bar and eating oysters.

Not romantically, just awesome high-school friends.” He adds “I’m not into the bar scene.” Corey says “I haven’t dated that much. I thought maybe she was punking me and had already talked to the friend who had set me up. I was too embarrassed to tell her that it was because I doused any flame before it had time to flicker.He’s tossing the books onto the bed while I sit in the middle like a bookworm queen. p.m.: We kiss eventually, and he reads poetry to me from the book he has just bought.I read one poem to him, and he rereads it, and I don’t know if it’s because he likes it or hates the way I have said the words. p.m.: I’m squashed into his neck nook and wipe eye makeup from under my eyes, dripped and messed up from kissing in a pile of books.It all started with breakfast rosé. a.m.: L and I met on Tinder, because this is how most of us meet now— through screens and swiping.It’s Saturday morning, and I’m walking to a fancy bar because we’ve agreed that meals on first dates are terrible, so we are meeting for a drink before most people have had breakfast bacon. a.m.: I am going to be approximately 3.4 minutes late.

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One of the hottest girls I knew in high school asked me out after we graduated. When the three of them picked me up at my place, my first thought when I hopped in the car was that Madison was even better looking than she was in her photos.

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