Boy Number 3

In the little town where I began my undergraduate education, there was only one place open after 10:00 at night - the Denny's. I used to go there to study, especially in the summer when the rest of campus was pretty much empty. About a month after B and I broke up, I met a boy we'll call C. He was local, a graphic designer student and bartender, and had tattoos of Salvador Dali paintings and Shel Silverstein illustrations. He had a goatee, a lip ring, and could sing every Tom Petty song. I was very smitten very quickly - I had a history of falling for the sensitive, artsy types, and he fit the bill. It was this summer that I had decided to move back home after classes ended and transfer to IU, to get away from some of the drama that small-town-religious schools can have, among a myriad of other reasons. C and I spent every day together for about a month, making camp fires by the local lake, seeing movies, sitting in the Evansille Barnes and Nobles for hours, reading Orson Wells (me) and Leaving Las Vegas (him). And then time for me to go. I had done long distance, and he was now gay. Didn't want to do that again. Having never officially been a couple to begin with, there was no breaking up to do. Just a good bye, and a keep in touch, which we do. His new lady is having a little girl this fall, and I couldn't be happier for them.