Choose Well

It figures that "The Odd Couple" was the only Neil Simon play I'd ever seen.

That finally got corrected at Hanover Tavern with a matinee of "Brighton Beach Memoirs," which, among other things, clued me in to the fact that Brighton Beach is an oceanside neighborhood in Brooklyn, a fact which was complete news to me.

And while the coming of age story of a Jewish boy navigating parents, older brother, aunt and two cousins all under the same roof was sweet and very much of an era (the '30s), one thing that struck me - besides the terrifically talented young Tyler Stevens as Eugene - was the nature of the relationship of young Eugene's parents, Kate and Jack.

In the story, there was a real bond between the parents, no matter how many difficult situations they were facing. Each was caring and solicitous of their partner, doing their best to look after and keep problems and annoyances from the other.

They were happily a unit.

Despite incredibly difficult financial times and mounting responsibilities, they plodded forward, never for a moment considering a future without the other.

My parents are like that, too, and the long-term success of their union feels like both a gift and a curse to someone who has yet to get an "A" in long-term relationships. But I recently got some unexpected clues from an unlikely source: a cast-off Time magazine.

Mom, being very much a product of the Depression, distributes her old magazines to others once she and my Dad finish reading them. The cleaning lady gets Good Housekeeping and Sports Illustrated goes to the barber shop, but Time and Vanity Fair she gives to me.

I admit, I don't always take all her cast-offs, preferring to flip through and choose based on cover stories. So when she handed me a stack on a recent visit and I spotted the June 13th issue of Time, I paused because of the topic: "How To Stay Married." Subhead: "Staying married is more challenging than ever. But new data says it's worth it."

Surely I could learn something from this article.

It seems Americans have elevated their expectations of marriage and while we actually are capable of achieving new heights, it's only with a lot of work. Without that effort, turns out we'll be more disappointed than previous generations because we'd been promised the moon (and believed it).

And what do we do when we get disappointed? We check out because we can.

Well, not all of us because people like my parents and Eugene's don't consider opting out an option. What's tantalizing to me is that a Cornell study of 700 elderly people revealed that every single one of them said the same two key things.

That a long marriage was the best thing in their lives but also that it was a difficult thing that required effort.

This surely ties in to statistics about older people in happy relationships being healthier and living longer. The article made it clear that sex played a bigger role than money in marital happiness.

All that made good sense to me. But where the article really got my attention was on the subject of soul mates, making the point that, "there are tens of thousands of people out there that anyone could be happily married to and each marriage would be different."

Well, that was certainly encouraging.

But it was the next two sentences, which someone (I'm assuming my Dad) had boldly underlined in red that spoke to real life experience.

And how do you make a soulmate? Practice, practice, practice.

Sitting in my apartment in Richmond, seeing those sentiments underscored felt like a direct message from my parents in the Northern Neck to me, although I seriously doubt that whoever did the underlining even considered that anyone besides their soulmate would see those emphatic red lines.

Or maybe they did, given how my mother has been telling me for years that she can't die because I'm not married. No, really.

Usually when the subject comes up, I remind her of one key factor she's ignoring and, as it happens, it's the same one that closes out the Time article.

Just pick out a good one and get lucky.

My parents were fortunate enough to do just that before they were even 25. Me, not so much.

On the bright side, I am willing to practice.

Chance Rules My Life

Sometimes you go for a comedy of manners and wind up with long-term relationship advice.

Call me a Coward fan, because there is nothing like the sparkling dialog of a Noel Coward play like the one I saw tonight at CAT Theater.

In "Private Lives," sure, some of the action is dated (non-stop smoking, rampant sexism), some of the pronunciations different - hic-cough not hiccup - and phrasing antiquated - let's get this straighted out - but some of it is just the audience's awareness of greater sensitivity. It's a good thing we no longer make jokes about stillborn babies.

Are you going to understand and manage me?

But overall, I was enchanted with a good cast telling a 1930 story about two well-off couples honeymooning in the south of France when they're really still in love with their divorced spouses, who naturally are staying in the suites next door to each other.

If I start going at it with you now, our lives will be unbearable.

Honestly, the whole discussion of who is normal and how undesirable living normally is was worth the price of admission alone.

Much as I was enjoying every delicious sentence of the play, some of the night's best lines came from the British couple sitting next to us. Returning from the first intermission, he went to climb over the railing to reach his seat next to me. His wife nipped that in the bud. "Don't!"

When he obeyed so quickly, I remarked that theirs must be a long successful relationship and he proceeded to share an anecdote about being in the Bahamas at a bar with his wife and mother. He set off to procure two Bahama Mamas for them but was distracted by two women.

"Like you two," he said to my friend and me. "But far more desperate looking."

Putting her hand over his mouth at this point, his wife said, "I'll tell the story from here," and did.They wanted their drinks, he was still flirting, so she walked up to the bar, reached between them and got them. When one of the women asked who she was, the husband responded, "My sister."

When I asked if she minded his lie, she said no, they just wanted their Bahama Mamas.

Then the lights went down and they took each other's hands. Be still my heart.

The second act took place in Paris once the couple had abandoned their new spouses and, appropriately after our intermission chat, began with relationship talk.

I feel rather scared of marriage. 
It is a rather frowsy business, really.

This was the act where it became clear that Amanda and Elyot can't live with each other but can't live without, either, making for some world class bickering.

He was in love with you.
Why not? It gave him a lot of pleasure and it didn't hurt me.

This act also showed its antiquity with a discussion of their sexual partners while they were divorced. He's aghast that she had any despite that he did. They were also the kind of couple that physically beat up on each other, no longer an acceptable relationship coping strategy.

Much as I was loving the play, I couldn't wait for the second intermission to talk to our Brit friends again.

Turns out they've been married 45 years. On the eve of their wedding, he called her up - she was 21 and still living at home - to say he was leaving town. Her brilliance was in saying okay. What about the food and everything for the reception, he asked her.

"Oh, we'll have a good party without you," she assured him. They spent two hours talking that night and came up with the most brilliant marriage plan ever: they'd try it for one year and then decide if they wanted to re-up.

"I still have the card he gave me that day, " the wife said smiling. "It said, 'one more year?"

They both remember the exact moment when they knew this relationship was for keeps. He was leaving to drive to Canada on business but returned to the house 15 minutes later saying he didn't feel right. She said she felt off, too and poured a glass of sherry.

They sat on the steps sharing the glass of sherry and not saying a word. Finally he stood up. "I feel better now." She did, too. "And we both knew that was it. And we've had a lot more sherry since."

These people were my new heroes. I can't imagine marrying someone at 21 and still being with them 45 years later. Hooray for them.

I asked about their taste in plays and learned that "The Full Monty" had taught them that they like to leave the theater laughing. "No heavy dramas for us," he said. "We laughed all the way across the parking lot after that!

Once again, she interjected. "We laughed for days!"

Some women should be struck regularly...like a gong.

Noel, this is where you lose me. I know things were different in 1930, but that's just not a funny line.

Heaven preserve me from nice women.

But almost all the rest of it was laugh out loud funny and we did, unable to resist such witty and pithy observations about both sexes and their repeated attempts at d'etente. Well written, Mr. Coward. Well acted, CAT.

Best part? The 45-years and going strong couple were laughing heartily as they made their way out.

On some people, marriage doesn't look frowsy at all.

This Woman is His Destiny

It's not all boat rides and deck sitting, you know.

I look forward to being invited down to my friends' yellow and blue river cottage and yes, I probably am the first one to raise my hand when the captain of the boat asks who wants to go for a boat ride. I can't wait to use the outdoor shower while I'm there and it's my considered opinion that the screened-in porch on their guest cottage is a practically perfect place to sleep, even in a thunderstorm.

But honestly, the most appealing reason to spend the Sunday and Monday just past (or any days) at their cottage is to watch the relationship of two people who are crazy in love. Two people who had a relationship, broke up (a period they refer to as the "Terrible Awful") and got back together five years ago for an even better Version 2.0.

I tell you, it's positively inspiring.

Every time he goes to open a big beer, he always asks of her, "You want half?" Because he leaves for work before she gets up, he makes her breakfast and leaves it for her. He's especially quick with a compliment, whether about how she's dressed, the meal she's prepared or a body part.

No lie, he goes around telling people, "Yea, I'm married to that!" in a voice bursting with pride.

Besides my Dad, I've never seen a man so forthcoming about how he adores his woman. The best part is, she confided while we were stretched out on lounge chairs on the deck that he's every bit as attentive and sweet when no one else is around but them.

She never takes advantage of her role as the adored. Planning, she always considers his preferences first. Accepting his kind gestures, she always thanks him, often complimenting his behavior to others. She flirts shamelessly with him and he eats it up...still.

So when I spend a couple of days with them like I just did, I get a first hand, up close and personal look at how a happy couple not only enjoys a good relationship, but works at it. Little gestures, sweet words, random kissing.

Their interactions remind me that successful relationships are only as satisfying as what both people put into them. With them, it's like watching silly love songs play out against their spacious deck and the sparkling blue waters of the Carotoman River.

He: What are you doing?
She: Taking barbecue out of the friggin' freezer.
He: Shut up and dance with me.

Is it any wonder they were bound to get together? Yea, I'm envious of that.

Heartbreak Beat

Sometimes the best way to be a good friend is to share some emotional eating.

When I messaged a friend about getting together tonight, my question about what he was doing was answered with, "Being pissed at my ex."

Although it's been coming for a while, he broke up with her yesterday, so understandably he's still processing.

But, as I told him, sitting around being pissed at her was not a worthwhile way to spend his evening and he agreed.

No, far better to go eat dollar tacos at Little Mexico and rant to me than sit at home and stew. And that's exactly what we did.

The arriving crowds were non-stop, the service incredibly fast and his chicken and my beef tacos perfectly serviceable.

But even with non-stop relationship talk while we ate, we were in and out in record time.

I suggested continuing the unloading with a gooey dessert so we went to Bev's.

A couple of indecisive girls let us go ahead of them and I took no time ordering a classic hot fudge sundae (no topping but double hot fudge).

My friend chose to taste the new basil ice cream while I sat down.

Meanwhile the girls decided and ordered. When the first of their ice creams was set down on the counter, my friend went to take a bite of it.

"Hey, that's my ice cream!" one of the girls said to him.

"That's hers!" I yelled from my seat, trying to stop him.

In another world, he took a bite without ever hearing either of us.

Oops.

That ice cream went in the trash tout suite. But it was an amusing distraction and just what he needed.

As we sat there eating our sundaes and getting more stuffed by the minute, we recalled another time we'd gone for sushi and then come to Bev's.

That night we'd promised each other that we'd never make that mistake again.

Oops.

On the other hand, with each bite, his mood was improving.

When we left, I suggested a walk knowing that the ex hated to walk after eating while he enjoyed it.

Leading the way, I headed straight to the VMFA's sculpture garden (since I'd not seen it at night) while he continued to talk about what was on his mind.

The garden was beautiful with the lighted water steps, the illuminated burbling fountains up top and the lit pathways through it all.

Near the top, we considered how the wooden deck would make a stellar dance pavilion, like the ones at the beaches in days of yore. It even had the sound of moving water in the background.

We stood on the lone metal bench at the very top of the garden, surveying everything below us.

It's a postcard-worthy view of our world-class museum after hours.

Meandering back to Bev's, we detoured so I could show him my favorite screened porch and yard in all of the Museum District.

Our last discussion was about what he should have learned from this last relationship; he wanted to take all the blame and I wouldn't let him.

"You learned how important it is to make sure you can both communicate with the person you love," I told him.

In my experience, you can never talk too much or too long.

But, what do I know? He's been unattached for 24 hours and my current status stands at over two and a half years.

Hell, he should be taking me out for some emotional eating.

Modern Romance

It was a small, intimate post-Christmas dinner party with an unexpected focus on sex toys and new relationship memories. I have to say, it was really kind of sweet.

The dinner had originally been scheduled for Sunday night, then shifted to Monday night because of the snow and finally agreed upon for tonight. I was the first to arrive, only to find the hostess in full Suzy Homemaker mode, not her norm by any stretch.

The prime rib was about to come out of the oven, the water was boiling for potatoes, bread was being sliced and veggies were being prepared. She poured us both a glass of wine and I shared my tale of wrist woe. Moments later, the other guests came in and the party started in earnest.

I loved her music selection for the evening; it was all obscure vintage holiday stuff from before my time, stuff like Johnny Hartman, Steve and Edie, Joe Williams, Billy Eckstein, Doris Day, the Lennon Sisters.

A few voices I recognized from my parents' old record collection, but we also had an aficionado of that era's music in the group and she was lightening fast at telling us whom we were hearing (her boyfriend said she was born 60 years too late). Really, Jim Nabors aka Gomer Pyle?

It was the kind of gathering that required a fire, so one was started while we enjoyed cocktails in the living room. A discussion of real versus gas fires ensued, but with the scent of well-seasoned wood burning in our nostrils, it was difficult at best to buy into the gas log argument.

Then the hostess disappeared, we heard the whirring of an electric knife and dinner was served. She had bought an enormous 5 1/2-pound piece of meat, despite the butcher warning her that she was overbuying for the size of her group, but meat's her thing.

She'd done a salt crust and barely cooked the meat to rareness and the butter for the bread required a sharper knife than the meat did. Though she claims she's not much of a cook, you'd never know it by her meat.

There was much moaning about the meat and in the midst of it, the cook casually mentioned that she'd been shopping at Priscilla's ("Where Fun and Fantasy Meet") today using her Frequent Customer Card. I thought I knew this woman, but apparently not.

She's a few months into a new relationship and they're doing a getaway New Year's Eve weekend and she thought she'd pick up a few treats. (Wait, Priscilla's has a Frequent Customer Card?) She offered to show us her stash after dinner.

Since I'm the curious type and I've never been in a Priscilla's (or any kind of fun and fantasy-type store), I wasn't willing to wait to learn more. This group was having third and fourth helpings of meat and there was no telling when they might be finished satisfying their blood lust.

Maybe she could start by telling us about some of the purchases she'd made, if only for discussion purposes? But words were clearly inadequate, so she fetched the pink plastic bag and I was designated the show and teller.

First came the Whisper Micro Bullet, which I'm still a bit unclear about, but the woman on the package looked very happy. It was followed by a silicon ring for a certain body part, no doubt a gift for her beloved. Surely also for his pleasure was the, um, cut-out outfit and stockings.

Then came the vibrating tongue ring (lasts up to 40 minutes!) causing a male guest to say, "Well, your tongue does get tired," with a slightly embarrassed laugh. Our hostess quickly corrected him, however; the product is designed to be used by a woman for a man's pleasure.

A collective "Ohhhh" came up from the table. Every single one of us had made the incorrect assumption about who would be using it on whom. Not that Priscilla's can check on proper usage or anything.

And on that note, we moved back into the living room to enjoy the warmth of the fire, yet another bottle of wine and some slightly more classically romantic conversation.

A guest told us about the memoir she had written about the beginnings of her relationship. It was sort of a memory book about their first four or five dates, complete with reminisces, restaurant and festival logos, even her unshared-at-the-time feelings about the burgeoning relationship.

She had begun it as an exercise for herself and become so caught up in remembering that she'd elaborated on it and decided to have it bound and present it to him as a New Year's gift.

The idea seemed romantic to me (well, given the absence of my own love life status, it would), so I asked the female half of another couple if she could pinpoint the top four days from their relationship's first six months.

With some thought, she came up with her own list: the day trip to the swimming hole when the car got stuck on the low road, her birthday weekend away with the endless Prosecco, an early-on meal at a local restaurant while snow came down outside and he wooed her inside.

Her S.O. made a few suggestions, but, as I pointed out, I was looking for her fondest memories at the moment, not his.

After all the sex toy talk, I was really just interested in hearing about some classic romance and with so many of my friends currently in relatively new relationships, they're full of the sort of stories worthy of a good true romance comic. You know the kind.

Her: (hand on forehead woefully) "Gosh, why hasn't he called yet?"

Him: "Golly, I'd really like to talk to her, but my tongue's exhausted!"

I feel quite sure they'll live happily ever after.

Fruit is Rusting on the Vine

A friend who, like me, prefers to communicate in writing, finally asked what phone number he could call me at. I gave it to him, clarifying that it was my only number.

Friend: I know that's your only number, Ms. Smarty pants. It never hurts to ask though. You could be at a different location. Could've run into a tall, dark and handsome man last night...the possibilities are endless you know.

Me: All the good ones are taken, haven't you heard?

Friend: I still hate to tell you the right one is tough to find. And you don't strike me as a simple, one-dimensional, compromising type of woman.

Me: So I'm going to be partner-less for the rest of my life, aren't I? (You can consider that a rhetorical question if you like)

Friend: Would be much easier for you to find this person in NY, CA, DC or Europe. In Richmond, you will have to adjust your criteria. I might have 77 things on my perfect woman spreadsheet, but you have at least 10-15 things on your list. Just sayin'.

And, yes, he really does have a spreadsheet (I consider it one of his many charms) and a girlfriend who meets more of the 77 criteria than anyone else he's ever met. They're one of my favorite couple dates since they're great conversationalists and eat out as much as I do (and like me, eat anything).

It hadn't even occurred to me that I had criteria, except that I do want a talker...and someone who likes to go out as much as I do...and loves to eat and drink...and they have to read...and be a good kisser...

So I'm not the spreadsheet type, but maybe I do have a few criteria in mind, meaning I will have a hard time whenever I do start dating.

Friend: Yes I was being kind with the 10-15 things :)

I am not making a spreadsheet. Presumably I will know if I ever meet the right person. And hopefully that will be when, not if.

I certainly hope I don't have to leave Richmond. Yet anyway.

Double Jinx at Garnett's Cafe

I don't know if there's a cozier place than Garnett's on a rainy day. It already feels like you're having lunch in someone's snug kitchen and the rain outside just emphasizes the comfort factor.

So after working all morning, I was headed over in the downpour to meet a friend, jabber and have some lunch.

And I wasn't a bit surprised to find the place full up except for a couple of seats at the counter, one of which I slid in to. A guy at the end of the bar was reading a book. The older couple behind me were chowing down in silence.

Seated next to me was the afternoon/evening cook who'd decided to come in early and hang out until his shift began, so he was happily sketching until his turn in the kitchen. "I couldn't think of anyplace better to be on a day like this," he explained. What he said.

Once again I fell victim to their fabulous Cobb salad (every salad should have bacon, don't you think?) and my friend and I dove into our latest news. Hers was monumental and exciting at the same time. Unlike me, she is no longer available.

The funny part of that, as I told her, is that twice in recent days, I had been talking to friends (couple friends, of course) about how one by one, all my long-time available friends have been pairing up.

Which is a good thing and I'm happy for them all. But both times, I'd mentioned that I at least still had one close friend in the same boat I'm in. One person who didn't automatically have a date for everything.

"Thank you!" she laughed. "You jinxed me right into being taken!"

Now that I know I have that power, I just have to figure out how to jinx myself.

"What a Waste!"

There's an old Rx form hanging in Tarrant's that prescribes a gallon of beer for treatment of diabetes. I'd like to see an Rx that prescribes brunch with a girlfriend for any number of female maladies, particularly machinations of the head and heart.

That's a roundabout way of saying that after three hours at the Empress with a girlfriend, I feel so much better about all the stuff that's been chasing around in my head the past two weeks.

As she pointed out, I have a habit of squaring my shoulders to the world and never letting on when things are occupying my mind, which they most certainly have been of late.

She chose the Empress because she's gluten-intolerant and every single thing on the brunch menu is gluten-free, including French toast and crepes. She ordered my favorite salad with arugula, Edam cheese, grilled chicken, garbanzo bean, sunflower seeds in a red wine vinaigrette, but I wasn't going to let myself go that route again.

Instead, I couldn't pass up the green eggs and lamb (Derby sage scrambled eggs, grilled lamb chops and hash browns), which was every bit as amazing as it sounds.

Props to Dr. Seuss for being the inspiration for something so catchy-sounding and mouth-watering. And how often do you get to suck bones at brunch? I'd say not nearly often enough.

Our server was a delight, relating to us and our conversation every time he stopped by to check on us. For every dilemma we were discussing, he had an anecdote and empathy to offer (men!). After the first hour, we were the only customers left, so we didn't feel like we were taking him from more pressing things.

Dessert was the ginger/cayenne chocolate pate, more because the kind of serious dishing we were doing called for chocolate than because either of us really needed it. Or perhaps it was celebratory since she'd been finally addressing a couple of personal issues in her life and I'd had a couple of almost forward steps in mine.

Which is not to say that either of us is satisfied with where our lives are at the moment, but when we're really honest with each other, maybe there is hope that things will eventually work out. You know, like before we're dead.

Or maybe I just need to quit squaring my shoulders and get my prescription refilled more often.

I need to do something, that's for sure.

And Who Doesn't Like Cake?

I didn't go to Avalon for romance; I went to meet a good friend for a glass of wine and some nerdy conversation (I got both).

The romance part came when a casual friend, one whom I've known for ten years but haven't seen in the past turbulent year showed up.

It was great to see her and while my wine friend stepped outside for a smoke break, she and I played catch-up.

As it turns out, she was meeting friends to celebrate; her divorce was final today.

The fact that she was celebrating represented progress because she wasn't the catalyst for the divorce.

It was one of those unfortunate instances when a wife arrives home unexpectedly only to discover her husband in flagrante delicto; the kicker was that he was with merely one of a string of chippies.

So snap!

Just like that, more than a decade of marriage out the window.

And just to be clear here, my friend is a very talented artist and photographer, not to mention smart, funny and gorgeous.

I say this as a friend, but I only wish I had a fraction of the allure she does.

Here's where the romantic part comes in.

After months of fearing dating and disrobing, reality and relationships, she heard from an old friend via, what else, Facebook.

We're talking about someone she knew twenty years ago who still lives in Great Britain, just as he did when she first met him.

They started communicating and found enough of interest to schedule a first date, despite the pond that separates their continents.

They met in Paris two decades after they last saw each other.

Things went so well that they've now planned a second date.

He'll be arriving in Virginia in a few weeks and they're taking a two-week road trip.

It will begin with a drive down Skyline Drive to Ashville, meander through Nashville and Memphis and makes stops in Savannah and Charleston.

You read right, date #2 will last a fortnight.

Granted, the mere idea of a Parisian first date and a two-week second date are enough to satisfy the romantic in anyone, but for me, that's not even the most romantic part.

I'm blown away by the optimism of them both, their open willingness to just throw themselves into this possibility and see what develops.

In an attempt to make me understand why she's following her passion, she pointed out that, "If you're attracted to someone at one point in your life, chances are you'll be attracted to them at a later date, too. People don't change that much."

That story made my night, possibly my month.

Imagine having your life totally torn apart only to have something wonderful rise out of the debris.

And as has been said by many a wise man, being able to travel well together is not only the ultimate test of a relationship, but absolutely necessary for its success.

This second date of theirs already sounds like the most romantic date ever, if only because they're both willing to do it.

The romance that happens along the way will just be icing on the cake.

Could someone cut me a really big slice, please?

Heating Up the Seven Year Itch

Having the Bowtie Cinema show classic movies on the big screen every weekend morning is proving a boon to my film knowledge.

Somehow, I'd never seen "The Seven Year Itch" with Marilyn Monroe, but a friend and I corrected that today; he couldn't believe how small and young (29, but playing a 22-year old)) she looked given the voluptuous image of her he had.

What struck me was the very different world of 1955, with men who sent their wives and kids away for a three-month vacation during the summer and then cut loose smoking, drinking and chasing other women while the fam was away.

I know it was a pre- sexual revolution time, but was it really as male-centric as all that?

And, if so, thank god the sixties arrived and things started to change.

Of course, the premise is that by about seven years into a relationship, the male of the species is bored with his partner (I'd put it more like 5.98 years, but that's just me) and looking for fresh meat.

Of course, in the sanitized Hollywood of the fifties, he resists the temptation of M.M. and returns to the loving bosom of wife and family, as opposed to today, where we just move on once we're bored, male and female both.

Not surprisingly, a little research uncovered the fact that the itch length has been shortened to less than 4 years now.

Apparently boredom sets in much sooner and we're far more comfortable with abandoning the old and seeking out the new.

Who knows, we could be on our way to a two-year itch, and, really, why bother at all then?

On the other hand, a prominent part of the film was about how few and far between air-conditioned homes and buildings were (including the guy's office), causing people to be overheated in the summer time.

Of course, as someone who has voluntarily lived without air conditioning for 18 years, I thought it was pretty cool (bad, I know) to glimpse a time when that was the norm and I wouldn't have been considered the oddity I am now for eschewing it.

And I am definitely hoping to disprove the whole itch thing altogether before I die.

Dating 101

In one evening, I went from not having dated since 2003 to two dates in one night.

Is it morally wrong to have a date with one guy at 6 and another at 10?

I'd been in a relationship and out of this dating thing for six years and I'm not sure what the rules are anymore.

On the other hand, perhaps I should forget about the rules and just see what happens.

I'd forgotten how intoxicating it is to spend time with men so eager to learn me.