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Friends- Tallboy Tuesday roared on this week with our theme: My Valentine.

We learned of one man’s love of making mold and of another’s enduring familial love. We survived the angst of teenage love and laughed at erotic romance.

Now, here’s my story for my Valentine…..

I run to you in the morning, before the sun is up.

And at night, when darkness surrounds us both.

It’s just us.

And I’m sweating. Panting. Lying with you.

Wanting to run. But unable to move.

You can be coarse and prickly.

But slippery when wet.

I cross all your lines. Longing to go the distance.

Sometimes others are there. And I feel their eyes on us. They’re younger. More spry. So full of life. And youth.

I’m older. And tired. I usually smell of last night’s gin.

Sometimes I just feel foolish.

I missed you in December. Again in January. February was too cold and you were too frosty.

But spring is in bloom. So the old desires are calling.

Cleveland St. Ignatius.

Calling me back to you. And your artificial turf practice fields where I can run my windsprints again.

With you, my valentine.

We love you.

And we’ll see you when we see you.

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“How did you go bankrupt?

Two ways. Gradually, then suddenly.”

Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

In Fremont, Ohio, you had two options for elementary school: Catholic or Public.

I went to Catholic school. Mom taught 5th grade at one of the public elementary schools.

This duality never mattered until I hit 5th grade and after a month of school noticed the covers of Mom’s textbooks were the same as my own.

Then one weekend in October 1993, I had the house to myself. Dad was outside in his overalls whacking weeds. Mom and E shopping at the mall in Toledo. I was alone with a question to answer.

I gathered my textbooks along with Mom’s and spread them across the yellow carpet that filled our living room. I sat cross-legged with a notebook in my lap, a pen dangling from my mouth, and started to compare.

First math, then English. Followed by Social Studies and Science. I flipped through chapter intros and end of lesson summaries. Read paragraphs from each side-by-side. As I compared, I found they were exact matches except for one critical difference:

Mom’s versions had the answers to every homework assignment, quiz, and end of unit test.

Which meant I now had the answers to every homework assignment, quiz, and end of unit test.

It was like I’d found Nintendo’s Game Genie but for 5th grade schoolwork.

I sat there for a second and stretched my arms high above my head. A little smile crept across my face.

But I wouldn’t fold that easily. Although I had uncovered this gift, I vowed I’d use it only if absolutely necessary. I wouldn’t cheat. I would get through 5th grade honestly.

One week later we had a Social Studies test and for some reason when the class time ended the teacher told us we needed to leave our textbooks in the classroom and that she’d give us an extra 15 minutes the next day to finish the test.

I left school that day fixed on one question from the test. I remember it was about the conquistadors and Cortes and a skirmish with Montezuma. I’d left it blank because I had no answer for it then. But I could have an answer for it once Mom got home with her books.

I walked the few blocks home with my stomach bound up like one of those twisty pretzels from a food court.

I got home and distracted myself. Shot hoops in the driveway. Played the Sega in the basement. Ate dinner with the family and our Dalmatians. Through all of it, my brain tried to conjure one damn answer for that one damn question.

And my heart wrestled with the promise I’d made the weekend before.

The answer never came, so I put myself to bed. Except whenever I closed my eyes I only saw that question staring at me. Calling to me. Pleading with me to answer it. I’d push it away for an instant, only to have images of Mom’s answer key dance into my view. I laid awake for hours.

Then, I heard Mom and Dad go to bed.

And I had a decision to make.

Stay in my room, keep my promise, and take my licks honestly the next day.

Or sneak downstairs, score the answer from Mom’s textbook, and break my vow.

Two minutes later, I snuck the f**k downstairs.

I grabbed Mom’s Social Studies textbook from her bag and flipped to the section about explorers. I found the test and my answer and once I’d started looking I couldn’t stop until I’d memorized every answer to every question.

I felt dirty about what I’d done once I’d finished, so I took a shower before falling comfortably asleep.

The next day, the teacher handed out our test. She said to get started because we had only 15 minutes to finish. I paused a moment before resuming my test. I looked across the class, watched everyone scribbling furiously, and smiled.

Then, I answered my question about Cortes and changed four others.

I got a 100%. That test never stood a chance.

And neither did my math homework that night. Or the following week’s science quiz. I aced my next three English tests, too.

H**l, eventually I got nervous about all the A’s and started missing questions on purpose just to keep things honest.

Still, I never stopped stealing answers.

Friends- if you ask me how I started cheating in 5th grade, I’ll tell you it happened in two ways. Gradually, then suddenly.

We love you.

And we’ll see you when we see you.

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In June 1999, I blew up my knee in a summer basketball tournament. Tore the ACL, MCL, and a whole bunch of cartilage. Surgery came in July, and it was questionable whether I’d return to play any sports in my upcoming junior year.

My entire identity was wrapped into sports, so I’m understating when I say that me returning to play was critical for my parents and me.

A few months later, Mom and Dad had gotten into magnet therapy to boost their health and alleviate their pain. For background, in magnet therapy, therapeutic magnets are incorporated into clothing or jewelry and placed on the body to harmonize your natural magnetic fields.

Blood flows faster. And healing accelerates.

Dad had had his shoulder replaced the previous April. So, there was a magnetic shoulder wrap. Magnetic bracelets. A mattress slip with magnets. And, of course, a knee wrap for me.

I protested wearing the magnetic knee wrap.

Mom and Dad said I needed to wear it because track season loomed.

We argued. Then compromised. I would wear the wrap only when I slept.

Which I started doing somewhere in early 2000. After a few weeks, though, I’d been traumatized and stopped wearing the stupid magnets but for personal reasons I also needed Mom and Dad not to know I had stopped wearing them.

So, for several months I just lied about wearing it.

Mom and Dad liked these magnets and asked a lot of questions about them.

‘Is the wrap helping? Do you feel better? You think it’s working?’

I dared not speak the truth, so I had to lie.

“Feels great,” I would tell them. “Best my knee’s ever felt. I don’t know what it is but seems like my knee just comes alive at night with these magnets.”

They’d ask if I’d wear the wrap during the day.

“Nah,” I’d say. “Nighttime is the right time. Trust me.”

This dance continued into a Tuesday evening in early March when the three of us were eating dinner together. Track meets were less than a month away and Mom and Dad wanted to ramp my healing.

I was enjoying a bite of pasta when they started digging in with their questions.

Are the magnets helping? Do you think they’re really working? The mattress slip is amazing. Maybe you need one?

I deflected for a few minutes.

‘Should we get you more? An ankle brace? Or wraps for your feet? You think you need more magnets?’

Their questions wouldn’t f*g stop.

I was frustrated and annoyed and angry with my parents for ever introducing the idea of magnet therapy to me.

“Look,” I snapped. “I hate the magnets. They don’t work, and I haven’t even worn the stupid wrap for months.”

“What?” Mom asked.

“Why?” Dad growled.

“Because,” I mumbled, now wishing I’d just kept my mouth shut.

“Why?” They leaned in on me.

“Doesn’t matter,” I retreated.

“We asked you a question. And you better answer it,” Dad said.

I had no choice. I couldn’t hold out any longer. I needed to come clean and tell the truth.

And the truth was that I wasn’t sleeping in the magnetic knee wrap because every time I did I had a wet dream.

And here’s the thing, because I don’t ever remember my dreams (maybe 10 in my whole life), not only was I coming on myself each night, but I wasn’t even remembering what I was coming about.

Plus, I was 16 and a virgin in every way except of the self-help variety. And now I was waking up sticky and embarrassed and worried that all the nighttime emissions were going to give me tired legs on the track.

Mom continued staring at me. Dad pointed his fork in my direction. A lone noodle dangled from it.

“Fine!” I finally said, my voice near a whisper. “I don’t wear the magnets because every time I do, they give me a wet dream.”

Defeated, I dropped my chin to my chest.

Mom gasped, then chuckled.

Dad didn’t say anything. When I finally looked up at him, he had that big grin spread all across his face.

“Well, I gotta tell you. I’m kinda jealous,” he said.

Friends- I haven’t had a wet dream in 21 years. Sometimes I wish I’d kept that knee wrap.

We love you.

And we’ll see you when we see you.

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We called Grandpa Lytle Popo.

And Popo could tell the h**l out of a story.

Popo had my height and build. Freckles dotted his fair skin, and his cheeks were usually rosy. He owned a big smile and louder laugh and when you sat with him he had a magical presence that made time cease to exist.

Whenever Popo had a story, he’d sit and smile for a few seconds before starting -- like he was slow-playing letting you in on a secret. His stories were long, and they never started or stopped in the same place. Truth for Popo mattered less than the story’s soul, and he’d laugh a little to himself as he spoke -- relishing the moment and the attention.

Even if you’d heard the story a dozen times, you’d find yourself laughing, too. Then the story would end, and Popo’s big, charming smile would come out.

A friend once told me: ‘I’d sit with your grandpa and he’d start talking and sip his drinks and we’d just laugh and laugh. And then he’d stop talking and look at me and smile. It felt like I was the only person in the world to him. I loved your grandpa.’

Popo was special. And he kept a keg of Stroh’s in his basement.

Life is full of conundrums. One is certainly that this big smiling, bigger laughing, cocktail-loving charmer I called Popo was also one of the fastest men in the world in the mid-1940s.

In college, Popo held the 100-yard and 220-yard sprint records at Bowling Green State University. A newspaper said he ran like the wind. Popo even bested future Olympic 100-meter gold medalist Harrison Dillard in some of their races.

And while World War II plus life’s duties intervened and Popo never tried for the 1948 Olympics, he did once get an “A” on a high school book report.

And it’s his retelling of this book report that ignited my love of storytelling.

Here’s what Popo said about that book report (Quotations, of course, are used loosely….)

“I was in high school, and the teacher said we had to do a report on a book of our choosing. And, well, I never cared much for school, so I just let her ramble and never paid any attention.

A week passed and some kids started asking about my report. ‘Kelly,’ they said (Popo and I share a name, by the way), ‘can we see your report?”

‘You’ll see it when you see it,’ I’d say and tell them to p**s off.

Then I got to class one day and all the damn kids had their damn reports written up and ready to go. Apparently, we were reading them aloud, which was trouble because I hadn’t read a damn thing.

One-by-one the kids started taking their turns reading, and I just sat there and thought: Well, Kelly, you really screwed yourself now. I didn’t know what I was going to do.

“Kelly, you’re up,” the teacher finally said.

I paused in my chair for a second. Then I stood and took my time getting to the front of the class. As I was walking, the teacher saw I didn’t have a report with me.

“Kelly, where’s your report?” She asked.

“The story is in here,” I said and pointed to my heart.

“Wonderful,” she said.

I reached the front, grabbed a piece of chalk, and scribbled on the chalkboard:

“Over the Top”

A Novel by Guy Impy

I turned to face the class. Stared at the floor for a second. Then raised my head. Grinned. And started speaking.

I told them about a boy from Omaha or Oklahoma or the farms outside Chicago. About how he rescued his sister once from a fire in the family barn, and how his mom died from pneumonia while his dad struggled to keep up their small store.

I talked about how the boy came of age in the early 1900’s, laboring with his father to make ends meet. I told them how he went off to the Great War where he sacrificed all of himself. And how his small town remembered him with a parade and a salute.

I looked out at the class when I was done. Wiped my damp brow with the back of my hand and said: “That, my friends, is Over the Top. A novel by Guy Impy.”

The class roared.

The teacher gave me an “A”.

And I never had the heart to tell her I made up the whole damn thing -- the title, the author, the story. All of it.”

Popo would finish talking and smile. Anyone listening would laugh. I remember marveling at Popo and how his warmth captured imaginations and attention. I remember hoping one day to the same.

Friends- the next time I heard this story, the hero survived the war and his mother never had pneumonia.

Like I said, Popo never let the truth get in the way of a real story.

We love you.

And we’ll see you when we see you.

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Dad was a rookie running back for the Denver Broncos in 1977-1978 when they made their first Super Bowl. Though more than 40 years ago, every year the NFL playoffs bring out memories and nostalgia on social media.

Like this year, when a friend of our family’s shared a photo on Facebook of Dad and a teammate standing on the Broncos sideline. There isn’t anything especially remarkable about the photo.

Just two teammates in their Bronco orange jerseys. They’re old school blue helmets are cocked slightly upwards. Dad has his hands on his hips as some action plays out on the field. The screen reads this is his first 100 yard rushing game as a pro.

Dad died ten years ago last November. And when I saw the photo, I shared it with Mom. She immediately sent me one of those laughing but crying, too, emojis.

That was last Sunday. And ever since I’ve been thinking about this photo and about Mom and Dad’s “Bronco Days” and about all the stories I heard.

Now, I want to share one of those stories.

I was born in September 1982. Later that month the wives of the Bronco players held a baby shower for Mom to celebrate.

All of them gathered at one of their homes. They were eating and drinking and carrying on. Mom had me in a carrier next to her while she was busy opening gifts.

I started to cry and wouldn’t stop.

So Cindy -- who is still married today to the player standing with Dad in the photo -- kindly offered to help.

“Thank you,” Mom said.

Cindy scooped me from the carrier. Held me close. And left the room.

A short time later she brought me back. I was quiet and content and resting.

She handed me to Mom and whispered something in Mom’s ear. Mom recoiled a half-step and shot Cindy a confused, if slightly curious look.

“Uhm. Okay. Sure. Thank you,” Mom said and returned her attention to the shower.

That was in 1982.

Before Dad died in 2010, he asked that we spread his ashes at the three stadiums where he played: Harmon Stadium in Fremont, Ohio; The Big House in Ann Arbor, Michigan; and Mile High in Denver.

So, thirty-plus years after the baby shower, my family and I were in Denver. On Sunday we would spread his ashes on the site of old Mile High Stadium before a Broncos game.

And on Saturday night we had a chance to gather with old teammates and friends at a downtown Denver bar -- some mom hadn’t seen since she left Denver in the early 80’s.

Cindy and her husband were there, too.

After a few drinks, Cindy, Mom, and I started chatting separately from the group.

“Did I……” Cindy started and stopped. “Does he know….” she looked at Mom. “Do you know about....” she looked at me.

I tilted my head and let a wide smile spread across my face. The three of us started to laugh. Cindy shook her head smiling.

“Oh, I have heard the story,” I finally said with a laugh big enough to cover the bar.

We clinked our drinks together. Cheersed the moment. And the memory.

Her husband leaned in to ask what we were laughing about.

“Oh,” Cindy started. “We were just reminiscing about the time Kelly here was a newborn and I breastfed him at Tracy’s baby shower.”

Her husband spit his beer across the table.

Friends- Stories aren’t always what we expect. But always expect a story.

We love you. And we’ll see you when we see you.

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Last night, sh*t popped off.

Had been a long week. Lots of stress. Long hours. Life whipping P and me.

We chilled in the front room for a few hours. Played Aretha. Then Otis. Ended with Jodeci on vinyl.

About 9:30, I went to the other room. Poured a gin. Turned on ‘Kelly’s Bad Movies.’ Started Homefront on a friend’s recommendation.

P popped in an hour or so later, Her walk full of sass.

“Damn. You’re not sleeping yet.” She said.

“Not yet.”

P eyerolled the TV. `

“I never get to watch my shows,” she sighed. “We always have to watch your sh*t.”

“Whatever. There’s only like 15 minutes left and then I’ll go to bed.”

“Fine.” P said and sat in her corner couch spot.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty.

“Ughhhhh. You said 15 minutes. Is this ever going to end?” P played on her phone.

Ten minutes later the credits started to roll.

I grabbed the remote. Turned the TV off. Giggled a little to myself. Then stood and tossed the remote into P’s lap.

P looked up. Sighed angrily. “Dammit! You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Turn off the TV whenever it's actually my turn to watch.”

“I would never….”

“Just stop,” P cut me off. I’m not in the mood for your sh*t.”

I watched P press the remote. TV wouldn’t respond. She hit it again. Still nothing.

“Every night. Every single night you do this. And now it won’t even turn on.”

“Worked fine for me.”

P growled. Waved the remote in the air. Pressed power again and the TV finally turned on.

“See. It’s fine,” I said and grabbed a string cheese from the fridge.

“No. It’s not fine,” P snarled.

I looked at the TV. She had Hulu pulled up. But the screen was frozen. None of her shows were loading.

“If you just kept the TV on…. Ugh. I swear. You’re always such a jerk.”

I pulled a string of cheese. Smiled. Turned. And headed up the stairs.

“And now you broke the internet,” P shouted. “Because you always have to piss me off and turn off the TV.”

I kept walking.

“I’m so pissed at you. Seriously!”

“Is it working yet?” I called from upstairs.

“I’m sick of it. I’m so sick of your b**t. You need to write a story about this. About how you’re an a***e.”

Friends- I woke this morning alone in bed. Heard a crinkle in the pocket of my sweats. Reached in and found the empty string cheese wrapper.

Then I went downstairs and ran the vacuum while P tried to sleep.

We love you. And we’ll see you when we see you.

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It’s a Friday night. About 10:00 pm.

P’s in the front room. Reading Deem or Kinfolk or Dwell. Pizza is mostly gone. Same for the wedges of fried cheese. I’m in the other room on the couch near the TV.

“K- what are you doing?” P asked.

“Just reading.” This is a lie because I’m scrolling P’s Netflix profile.

“Okay.”

I scroll through the indie flicks. Past the section of British period dramas. Clear the documentaries and stuff about Scandinavian design. Past that show Abstract and some rows of sh*t about the Royal Family. Finally arrive at the ‘watch it again’ section and find me a good one.

I turn the volume low to keep P at bay. Then press play.

A few minutes pass.

“K- what are you up to?”

“Nothing. Still reading.”

“Oh. Thought I heard some noise.”

“Nope. Might have been the neighbors.”

I hit the down arrow on the volume. Glanced out the window. Quiet. Dark. Though I could see a faint snow falling. Nobody had been outside in hours.

I sank deeper into the corner of the couch. Watched on the Netflix as Jason Momoa looked all heroic in the snow while trying to save his father and daughter and battling a gang of vile drug traffickers who controlled the turf around his logging company and wanted him dead.

I smiled at the perfection of my Friday night.

Then P appeared. Over my right shoulder. She eyed the TV. A cabin exploded.

“K…. Thought you were reading?”

I looked around. Not a book in sight.

“Well…. I was. But I got tired. So I turned on my stories.”

“Annnnnd what story is this.”

“This? Well, this… This is a good one. A real good one.”

“Hmmmm.”

“It’s got the the big, beautiful man from Game of Thrones. Except he’s a logger now and lives somewhere north and cold…. Like Maine….. or Canada…. And his dad has amnesia and they’re trying to spend a quiet weekend together.

But his buddy makes a deal with some nasty drug dealers. And this is where it gets real good.

The deal goes sideways. So Jason has to fight the bad guys and save his dad and save his daughter. It’s really good so far.

I think you’d like it.”

(Silence)

“Did I mention Jason is married to Lisa Bonet?”

(sigh)

“K! You’re always doing this,” P said.

“Doing what?” I asked.

“Spoiling our Netflix profile. And I had it curated just right. I can’t even handle you.” P swirled a little red inside her big wine glass. Continued.

“Art. Design. The royal family. Stories from Scandinavia. It was an…. an inspiration. And now….. now it’s this?”

She pointed at the TV. Some sh*t blew up.

“Well, I’d like to think we can become more than just what the Netflix algorithm wants us to be,” I piped up.

(Scowl)

“Just sayin. I don’t want to live my life defined by what the Netflix tells me to watch.”

(Eye roll)

“K- How many times have you watched National Treasure this month?” P asked.

“Only once.”

“And the Bournes?”

“Just the first three…. but those were on Prime….. so they don’t count.”

“And what’s the name of this one?”

I sat up on the couch. Propped my back into the corner. Held my chin high.

“This…….is Braven. And Braven is wonderful.”

“You need your own f*g algorithm,” P said. “And you’re sitting in my dn spot.”

Friends- ‘Kelly’s Bad Movies’ made its appearance on the Netflix account the next day. This month I’ve seen Den of Thieves, Passenger 57, and Extraction. Plus, P seems happy.

We love you.

And we’ll see you when we see you.

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This is the story of when I learned my name. It happened when I was 6.

But before we get into the story, here are 7 things that happened before I learned my name:

Taking two stints to graduate pre-school

Getting benched in tee-ball after coach put me on first base and instead of trying to catch the ball or even use my mitt at all, I just let the ball smack me in the nose twice - on back-to-back plays - when thrown at me

Not being able to do a jumping jack or ride a bicycle

Seeing Beetlejuice at Paramount Cinemas in Fremont somewhere between two and nine times

Sobbing in that same theater and curling into Dad’s arms when Optimus Prime died during the original Transformers

Playing Voltron with Dad on a Saturday afternoon and jabbing him in the eye with one of the pieces. For two weeks, Dad wore an eye patch and a scowl and never gave up the claim he had won the battle

Stealing my sister’s yellow, plastic Fisher-Price purse. And carrying it everywhere... along with a clown doll my family called Clownie.

Mom and Dad named me William Kelly after Grandpa Lytle.

And in August 1988 I arrived for the afternoon session of my first day at St. Joe’s Kindergarten - blonde hair in a bowl cut; pasty arms dangling from a light blue, short-sleeve button-down shirt; dark blue slacks; and knowing my name was Kelly because, like Grandpa, that’s what I always went by.

Inside our classroom was a fake Christmas tree. And from the tree hung brown, construction paper ornaments. Each ornament had the name of one student on it.

The teacher told us that when we tied our shoes or counted to ten or took a nap on schedule we’d get a “star” or “good job” sticker to place on our name card.

I remember being really…. really…. excited about this.

And I remember being immediately ready to compete for these stickers. Like looking around the room and sizing up my kindergarten classmates as if they’re f*g threats ready.

So, later in day one - or maybe day two - I earned my first sticker for something I’ve long ago forgotten. And I placed that sticker on the tip of my right index finger and strode like a champ up to the tree. I moved in a slow circle around it hunting my name.

I searched…. and searched.

I hunted…. and hunted.

And, in the end, I struck the f**k out. Because none of the cards had my name on them.

Then, one-by-one all the other kids started coming up with their stickers. They’d find their ornaments immediately. Decorate them with their stickers. Smile at me. And sit down to do a puzzle or drink chocolate milk or whatever.

There’s one kid I’ll never forget.

He came up to the tree. Found his name right away. Placed his sticker on his card perfectly. Started walking away. Stopped. Turned. Hit me with me a double-eyebrow raise plus a smile. Turned away again. And strutted to his seat. This a**hat was all I could take.

My chest started heaving. I felt my face go all red. Breaths getting hard to come by. I looked around the room. Everyone was smiling. Most were laughing. So I panicked. And hid as best I could behind the tree. And then let loose with the tears.

Sister Maria came over. Asked what was wrong.

“Everyone has a card but me!”

I buried my head into the polyester of her nun-gown. She patted my blonde head. Said she was sure everyone had a card. Said she’d help me find mine.

“Okay,” I said.

She traced the tree.

“Here you are!” Sister Maria said smiling.

I wiped snot from my nose with the back of my hand. Scurried around the tree to her.

“Where?” I asked.

“Right there,” she pointed at one of the ornaments.

I stretched my head closer to the cards. Turned back to look at her.

“Where?” I asked again.

Sister Maria moved her finger closer to the card.

I recognized the last name on the card, but had never seen the first. I backed away from the tree.

“That’s not my name,” I said.

“Yes it is. It says William. William Lytle. That’s your name.”

“No it’s not,” I said. “My name is Kelly. I don’t know who William is.”

Sister Maria glanced at the card. Then down at me. She smiled a smile of comfort and amusement.

“Pretty sure your name is William, too.”

“Huh?” I said.

Friends- Now you know how I learned my name is William.

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And we’ll see you when we see you.

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Larder Delicatessen and Bakery is just down the street from where P and me quarantine. It’s amazing. And delicious. Like James Beard Award Nominee amazing and delicious.

Larder’s potato salad would make Meg Ryan have an actual orgasm. The homemade brownies might do the same.

If Zeus and Jupiter ever descended from the heavens for a lunch sit-down, they’d dine at Larder. Zeus would try the pastrami. Jupiter the chicken sandwich. They’d both be right. And they’d both end their lunch more satisfied than on any other visit to Earth.

Larder is that good.

And Larder is where P and I went for lunch last Saturday.

P ordered the bacon cheeseburger. Chicken sandwich for me. We would share the orgasmic potato salad.

Once home, I unwrapped my sandwich. A chunk of chicken goodness dressed with some slaw had broken free. I scooped it into my mouth. Licked the extra sauce from my finger. Then started in on the sandwich.

P asked me for a small bite after a minute or two. “All gone,” I told her.

A few hours later, I had gotten into the gin and gotten a little hungry. I checked the refrigerator. All Guiness and Modelo up top. Then searched one of the crisper drawers, hoping for a spare string cheese.

Instead, I found P’s cheeseburger half-eaten and wrapped in its paper wrap and tucked into the corner of the drawer, mostly hidden by an extra bottle of Prosecco from the holidays.

I peaked at the burger. Bacon, onions, pickles, and a patty spilled from the bun too tempting to resist. So, I took a small bite. And it tasted good.

Like, so d**n good.

But, I only had the one bite. Then I wrapped the burger in its wrapper and tucked it into its hiding place.

The sun set. The gin continued. So, too, did my nibbling. Every 30 minutes or so I snuck another bite. The next two were small and after the second at least ⅓ of the burger remained. P might not even notice if I stopped now.

But I couldn’t stop.

I kept eating.

Thirty minutes later I had finished P’s bacon cheeseburger. And I felt like s**t because she wanted to save her leftover. Now, I had stolen them.

There’d be some h**l to pay when she found out..

I formed a plan. Took a plain bagel from the pantry. Then a tan notecard from our stationary stash. Wrote on the card:

Sorry, boo.

Larder is a temptress. And I’m its victim.

This card is an I.O.U. - Good for lunch there whenever you wish.

The sandwich was delicious, for what that’s worth.

I’m sorry.

Love,

K

I wrapped the bagel and card in what had been the cheeseburger’s wrapper and braced for impact.

Friends- P accepted my apology. But the ground I walk on shakes. If there’s a lesson here, it’s as simple as not stealing your partner’s leftover cheeseburger.

We love you.

And we’ll see you when we see you.

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