Myspace Post - September 20

Folks, it is 1:30am in the morning. I sit typing, ever so softy so as not to wake my dozing (my noisily dozing) boyfriend who lies prostrate and precariously on the edge of the bed behind me. Stephen sleeps one room over. He may be noisy, but this place is soundproofed.

Troy and Alex have gone out for a stroll and a pipe smoke.

I am spending the night here tonight due to some car troubles. Some likely big car troubles. Said troubles struck like a thought in the night. Unexpected and mysterious.

But, like a cliche girlfriend, I must write of the romanticness of this boyfriend of mine.

First of all, as we were in the process of returning from the Bible study at the church where he is mentoring, with a classmate of his (Steven, not Stephen), he became very concerned with MY concern about the car troubles.

Second, when we stopped at a store so I could get some dinner, he insisted on driving it the rest of the way home. On arriving home, he jumps out of the car (this exhausted fellow, worked to the bone, jumps out of my car) and calls up his dad. He spends a great deal of time poking around in there. Finally, he shuts the hood and rejoins me in the car.

We are parked on the street. It is very dark. I am quiet, pondering how to handle this catastrophe. I begin to pack up my food and bags, and he takes my hand and kisses my cheek, promising me everything will be all right.

We enter the apartment. He moves straight to the computer, looks up auto shops in the area and searches google for an answer to what might be the cause of these odd car troubles. He enlists Alex to go with me to the autoshop tomorrow morning, insisting that we call him at the slightest sign of something funny.

I am crestfallen. Certain of a nightmarish and unfixable problem, which is likely.

I stretch out on his bed, arm over face, not wanting even to look at him. I know what he's going to tell me He sits down beside me, leans over and says, "One day, you're going to have to let me look at you."

I remove my arm doubtfully.

"You have to let me pay for this. There's no other way."

I writhe inwardly and outwardly refuse, insisting he can't do such a thing. Tears and shaky breaths: all present.

"I've got tons of money."

"You don't owe me anything," I tell him. "It's not your job to do this for me." I give a long, tearful sob. "I can't pay you back."

He hugs me and whispers, "You've already paid me back." My mind races to formulate some answer to this, some counterargument. He beats me to it. "You are not an island, Michelle. And the time is coming when we won't have to even think things like whether or not we can pay each other back."

"What if the repairs cost too much? What will I do?" He can't beat me on this one!

"We'll buy you another car."

"... You can't buy me a car, Peter. You can't."

"Why not?"

I cannot form an answer here, so I remain silent. He always wins these arguments. "I hate being poor,"I breathe at last.

"Well, I've got enough money, so you need to let me do this for you. We need to act as one unit here."

We discuss some particulars. At last, he coaxes a smile from me as I wrap my arms about his neck. And do you know what this man says to me at that moment?
"You know, I would give up all my money and everything I have just to see your face light up again like it did just now."


Men like him just cannot actually exist. They just can't.