five years

One day I came home from class to find you asleep on my bed (not that this was anything special—you were such a nap slut back then). After that you kept coming back, either to chat or drool sleepily on my pillow while I typed up a late-night assignment. At some point our relationship took a weird turn and never recovered. You would spot me down the dorm hallway and I would take off like a frantic hunted animal, dodging around every corner, desperately trying to escape back to my room where I could lock my door against your attack. More often than not you caught me, you speedy monkey, and I would spend the next fifteen minutes trying to stop laughing long enough in order to pitch you from your gleeful position atop me. This went on for some time and then we began dating. That first night we went to a free screening of U-571 and I had to sit next to a bona fide WWII veteran while Matthew McConaughey battled the Nazis with a run-down submarine, an implausible understanding of physics, and his dashing good looks. We reenacted the movie on our way home, falling into bushes and other pedestrians each time a depth charge struck our submarine. One year later you gave me socks as an anniversary present.

I wonder what this year has in store for us? All I know is—if it’s a U-571 DVD, we’re through.