Adult Frat Boy

College basketball on every screen in soho. You were less memorable than the game. Your face reminds me of my first beer, of the first time someone sang “Sweet Caroline” to me. You say you’re coming here to watch the finals if we win. I hope we do.

Championship game. It’s not easy to find you in a sea of white men; you find me. We know we’re going to lose by the third quarter. "That red head can really shoot," you say. I’m hungry and ask if you want pie. Yes, you say. A few blocks later we arrive and you ask where it is. We're here, I say. Ahh, you thought it was pizza pie. This is dessert pie. You say I tricked you. Maybe I did.

You call me at 10am on a Thursday to tell me you have chlamydia. You sounded embarrassed. I think about the composite on your wall and how the second thing I did was text my college group a photo of it. “NYC keeps me young,” I wrote. We walk through Chinatown and you get me shrimp rolls to say I’m sorry. Chivalry isn’t dead. Neither is chlamydia.

Photo By: Kelly Balch