Head and Shoulders

Without much difficulty I take myself back to a night very much like this one. Lisa wasn't yet pregnant, things were simpler, or they appeared that way and that's half the battle. Eating with your eyes first and all that.

We were sitting on the couch in my basement, which was to say my parents' basement. Christmas lights strung around, a forgettable comedy on TV. My hand was on her knee and she tilted her head toward me. Say what you want about sex, casual or otherwise, there is nothing quite like the first time a girl puts her head on your shoulder.

We split a pizza, she could always match me bite for bite. Now she's pregnant and she wants weird things, pineapple, extra olives, she's eating for two and this stranger has strange tastes. She's still mine of course, but not in any real way that matters anymore. And that's not a bad thing. I've still got these shoulders, waiting for her whenever she needs them.

She still smells the same, uses the same perfume. I remember seeing the bottle, some ridiculous name in some ridiculous line from some ridiculous pop singer. Is that really why my girl smelled so good? She still wears it. Her biology will change. I guess that's what it does.

We always had our designated places on the couch. I would freak out when my parents came downstairs. Lisa would shoo my cat off her lap and I would twinge a bit in sadness. But mostly we sat there, taking in bad jokes and pepperoni, completely unaware our lives would be a scrambled version of that day, day after day, forever. Or perhaps, somewhere, we knew. Perhaps we both did. And we sat there anyway. I'd like to think that.