Sophistication
By: Dave Woehrle
When I was 20, I fell for a woman with eyes like the back of burnt CDs, a green containing melodies. She wore cardigans, enjoyed wine, swing sets in the rain, and collecting rubber chickens. She was 23. A journalist. A tea-drinker. Sophisticated. Smarter than me. I think she liked me because I played an instrument and knew who Simone de Beauvoir was.
Over dinner in a Thai restaurant one night early in our courting period, there was a lull in the conversation. She’d been explaining why Aimee Mann albums were important and I’d been nodding. It was quiet, so I asked her if she had to have sex with an animal, which animal would it be. She said nothing and stared. More silence. I said I’d chose pandas, nature’s cuddlers.
She was grossed out. Put her chopsticks down. She asked what kind of question was that. I said it was theoretical, you know, it’s not as if we’d have to go to the zoo after she answered. She said it was different for girls. I said I’m sure it was, that’s why I ask. What’s the female perspective here sorta thing.
She wasn’t speaking then, so I tried to laugh it off, Just kidding, sweet pea. After awhile, she faked a laugh too and said, “You’re cute,” which means, as I’ve learned over the years, “You’re still 16.”
A month later, she concluded I was too immature for her, said she wanted something “more serious.”
She should have just said “Komodo Dragon” and then we’d be married today.
