I met a fella. Dark hair, big brown eyes, loved art. We had two very successful dates and I was starting to get that certain spring to my step.

He suggested that the third date take place at his house. He would cook and we could, um, hang around a bit.

My thoughts began to stutter, my lips to pucker, my penis did a tap dance. I was going to plow this guy into delirium then in a bit we'd adopt a bunch of dogs. And grow shit. And do things couples do. Buy dishes. Paint rooms. Rub feet.

I arrived at his door with a tastefully informal bunch of wild flowers and a head full of loosely arranged romantic fantasies.

“ Hi Greg welcome! I'd like you to meet my life partner Jason. Jason, this is Greg.”

Now call me fussy, but if I'm dating you and you’re partnered I think that you'd better put that information out there, front and center. If this happened today I'd walk away. But I was twenty. For some reason I felt it was necessary to hide my shock and proceed as if nothing was off.

I chatted. Laughed. Plowed through small talk like a tank rolling through a war torn town. After a decent amount of time I blah-blahed my way out of there, my angel fish needs to be walked, my cactus gets lonely, who knows what I said but I somehow made it to the door.

On the way home I picked up a box of brownie mix and a gallon of milk. I didn't bother to bake it I just spooned it all down.