Yesterday, I found a dog on the side of the road. He was smelly, had patchy black hair, and was furiously chewing a corn cob. And that's how Jorge, my old boyfriend, and I got back together.
My Mom warned me about Jorge when we first got together. He was a bass player and I have a misplaced vertebrate in my back, so carrying his upright bass into his Chevy Traverse was very difficult. She said to me “Virginia, how are you ever going to shoulder all of that responsibility?” But this was during the 2008 election, so she may have been referring to the crucial role that the state of Virginia played in deciding who would win the electoral college.
But Jorge was kind. He once gave me 2 dollars to buy him a hamburger that he let me have a bite of. I loaned him money and he paid back 62% of it within 3 years. And I didn't even have to ask!
And his body. He was so pale and had a large lumpy belly. It was as if he was a Prince from the 16th century, proving his wealth with his enormous girth and his lack of exposure to any form of sunlight. This sort of power was intoxicating. He projected this power in his powerful scent. A mix of garbage, Axe body spray, and sidewalk chalk. This was the smell of success.
Our relationship ended on a positive note. He had to be evicted because the landlord could not understand how cool he was and he moved to a rehab facility. And it wasn't even court ordered! I asked if he and I could continue our relationship. What he said radiates with honesty and beauty in its truth: “Valerie, those sluts in rehab are desperate and I have to get at that while they are still kind of high.”
My Jorge! How I missed you! Ever time my back didn't ache, I thought of you and your sweet-ass Chevy Traverse. Your natural body perfume wafts through my 200 square foot studio apartment and I can resist no longer. My air mattress will squeak with the sounds of passion.