Maria tells me I’m a fiery love machine, and I suppose in many ways I am.
But I am also an realist. I’m not better looking than most guys, and my shoulders are freckled and kind of hang on me like they’re waiting for something interesting to happen. I have a mirror. I know what I’m up against.
I’m smarter than everyone else about the details. I look at my girlfriend Maria, and I think about how her skin, ethnically influenced in ways that make her tan and make me pasty, is as much a miracle as splitting the atom. And once I kiss that skin, especially the lower part of her neck, the atom takes second place. And, for just a few minutes, my shoulders catch up with my mind. They’re no longer waiting; they’re arched and, well…almost big.
So, yes, in many ways I am a fiery love machine.