A Practice Dialog

         Her black hair is like baking flour in a way I can’t quite describe; soft like promises made but never intended to be kept. Her skin is pale like the dark is pale, and in the quiet of her bedroom all I can see is the whiteness of her breasts as she sleeps.

         I try not to make a sound as I get out of bed, but the springs squeak and I wince, but she stays undisturbed. I take a towel, and wrap it around my waste and go out into the hall. It’s well lit, and the warmth of the light in that rented apartment makes me feel like I’m welcome in another’s home.

         I walk down the hall and into the living room where my new lover’s roommate sits on the couch, watching TV and rolling a joint. She looks at me and smiles, she’s got a knowing look and she laughs as I adjust my towel.

         “I was just getting a drink of water.” I say, “Sorry.”

         “No, don’t be sorry, I was just watching TV,” she says, and she teases me by adding, “What were you doing?”

         I’m speechless for a second before I realize, “hey, I don’t have to explain anything to you.” I walk through the living room and into the adjoining kitchenette and take bottled water from the refrigerator.

         “So,” She laughed, “how was it?”

         “How do you mean?” I asked, pretending not to know what we’re talking about.

         “I’m going to hear about it anyways, y’know,” She shrugged, “no use hiding.”

         “It was good.” I laughed, “You never really know if you really like somebody until you sleep with them, they say.”

         “Who says that?” She asked, she finished rolling her joint and was lighting it.

         “I say that.” I admit.

         “So do you like her?” She asks while exhaling the smoke.

         “Yeah,” I nod.

         “She’ll be out for awhile,” she says, “want to smoke?”

         “I don’t think so; I’m not really very good at it.”

         “How can you be bad at smoking?” She looks at me incredulously.

         “I just get overly analytical; everything takes on a hidden and secret double meaning.” I try to explain, “It’s not relaxing when I’m high.”

         “Oh, okay,” she nods, “if you don’t want to.”

         “It’s not that I don’t want to…” I pause, “no, it’s that I don’t want to.”

         “Really, that’s okay,” she explains, “but hang out for awhile, if you want.”

         “I’m in a towel.” I awkwardly shift from one foot to the other.

         “Yep,” She nods, “you sure are.”

         “I’m not really very good at the whole ‘staying the night’ thing.” I laugh, “I don’t know if I’m supposed to go lie in bed next to her all night, arm around her, or if I’m supposed to kiss her head while she’s sleeping and go home, or something between.”

         “I don’t know,” she shrugged, “it’s kind of nice when a boy wants to stay in your bed all night, but it’s also really awkward in the morning.”

         I sat down on the arm of a big fluffy chair, very aware of my nakedness, “in movies people just wake up in the morning next to each other at roughly the same time.”

         “Can’t you sleep?” She asked.

         “After that?” I confessed, “Hell no! I live for these moments; to fall asleep now would be like going to bed at an amusement park.”

         “She’s asleep.” She observed. “Isn’t she excited?”

         “I hope so,” I nodded, “I hope she likes me; you never can tell until you sleep with a person.”

         “I don’t think that’s true.” She shrugged, “I think ideally you don’t sleep with someone until you think you like them.”

         “Maybe,” I nod, “but for men, it’s usually the other way around. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’d sleep with a woman like her even if I knew she hated my guts.”

         “That’s pretty messed up.”

         “Yeah,” I agreed, “in truth, knowing I don’t have to impress her would probably make it better.”

         “Oh?” She laughed, “Had some performance anxiety?”

         “No, just anxiety, the performance was great,” I added, “I think.”

         “The first time with anyone is always a little awkward.” She intoned.

         “It wasn’t really that awkward with her,” I added, “it was just that she just went asleep afterwards, and I just sat there, still wide awake.”

         “Maybe you tired her out.” She offered.

         “Or maybe it was just another day at the office, and not the amusement park it was for me.” I shrugged.

         “You think too much,” she said, her voice cut with a little bit of annoyance, “any other guy would just be like ‘I got me some,’ and leave it at that.”

         “Oh, I will do that tomorrow when I brag to all my friends,” I laugh, then sheepishly add, “this is kind of a rare occurrence for me.”

         “Yeah,” she nodded, “I gathered as much. You don’t have the face of a guy who’s been around the block a few times.”

         “Don’t get me wrong,” I continue, “I’ve taken some cursory trips around the corner, had some girlfriends, gotten drunk a few times and wound up getting naked and awkward with a few women; had some really elbowy affairs.”

         “I get it.” She looked a little uncomfortable for the first time, “there are not too many college guys who’re willing to say that.”

         “What can I say?” I gestured toward my towel, “I’m feeling exposed is all.”

         “Ever hear the song, ‘Everyone has had more sex than me’ by TISM?” I offer, “That’s a pretty good indicator of how I feel.”

         “You do know I’ll tell her that, right?” She smiled.

         “You Judas!” I pretend to be betrayed before continuing, “I’m just kidding, in truth, I bet she already know she’s more experienced than I am.”

         “Whoa!” She put her arms up and laughed, “Don’t go throwing words around like ‘experienced,’ buddy ol’ pall. Mothers are experienced. We’re just young. And she’s not a slut or anything.”

         “I didn’t say she was.” I try to defend myself.

         “There’s nothing wrong with enjoying sex unless you’re all religion-fied.”

         “I know that,” I said, “it’s not that I don’t enjoy it, it’s just that I don’t really know how to talk to other people… I’ve spent so long and so much energy trying to be someone worth liking, but I just don’t know how to be good at… y’know.”

         “So you’ve been faking it?” She asked.

         “Well, yeah,” I admitted, “everyone fakes parts of themselves, but I fake myself more than I think is normal. I’m not doing it because I want to fool her; I’m doing it because I really do want to change.”

         “You are who you are,” She intoned, “you can’t be happy until you accept your flaws.”

         “Maybe that’s true,” I nodded, “but I just can’t accept my flaws yet. I don’t want to be a flawed person; I want to be perfect. I don’t want to be lazy, even though I am, or dumb, even though I am, and I want to be able really and truly care about the people around me, even when I’m hurt or afraid.”

         “But you’re not really that person; you’re just faking it.” She said.

         “Yeah,” I agreed, “I am, but it’s like C.S. Lewis wrote in the Screwtape Letters, people usually become what they’re pretending to be, given enough time. There aren’t classes I can take on how to be a good person; I’ve just got to start trying, and make mistakes, and learn my lesson.”

         “There’s a difference between trying to be a good person and faking being a good person.” She looked incredulous again.

         “Yeah,” I said, “but I’m not a good enough person yet to make the jump from faking to trying.”

         “So if you’re such a bad person, why haven’t you had more sex than you have?” She asked.

         “I wasn’t a very good bad person either, I guess,” I laughed, “maybe I’m just not cut out to be one or the other, just something between.”

         “You’re full of shit,” she laughed.

         “Yeah,” I agreed.

         “I’m going to sleep,” I nodded, and walked back down the hallway, “goodnight,” I said before opening the door and crossing the threshold.