March 5, 2001

It was a warm, clear night, I recall, and I was smoking cigarettes with a friend. We sat on the front steps of my house, staring at the sky and the run-down neighborhood of East Oakland.

She was a dyed-red-haired girl as punk as anyone I had ever met. We met in a class years ago and again in several classes after that.

We never hung out for long. We'd argue, split, and disappear from each other's radar.

She'd tell me I was too anal and withdrawn (though not in so few words). She was too random and neurotic (although I never had the guts to say so). In short, we never understood the other.

Then we'd run into each other and start the whole "friendship" all over again.

So we sat during a warm summer's night on the front steps. Inside, my friends and roommates laughed and talked. They were either watching Red Dwarf on television or playing Dungeons & Dragons.

The punky girl and I somehow got to talking about the latest guy that wasn't with her anymore. Out of the blue, I asked, "Would it be OK if, you know, I spent the night..."

"With me?" She asked, surprised.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I...don't know."

She paused to think. "I never got the impression you were interested in me, in that way. You never really said anything." She stared at the ground, frowning. "Of course you're welcome to spend the night...with me...I suppose."

We finished our cigarettes, walked back into the house, and never mentioned that conversation again.