Nebraska

You know how I’ve always said that the love of my life probably lives in some small town in Nebraska? And how it’s such a tragic-crying-shame because I really have no good-earthly reason to ever go to Nebraska? (I mean, of course you don’t know that, but now you do. So. Great.) Anyway. I’ve always said that.

I don’t know why Nebraska. Don’t ask me that. There’s not really anything I particularly like about Nebraska, I’ve never even been to Nebraska- but it seems like a down to earth, small town, corn-fed kind of place, where people still make stuff with their hands. Somewhere in Nebraska there is a pocket of creative-folk who are not there because they really want to deal with the conservative politics, but because that’s where their truest friends are. Dearest friends and their dad’s 1972 Bronco. That thing sits in Pop’s garage all winter and waits for spring to come and thaw out the back roads. Their hair always blows in the springtime wind. Anyway. I’m sure they spend warm summer nights on a porch drinking whiskey and listening to good music. That’s why I say the love of my life probably lives in Nebraska.

So, recently, I met this guy from Nebraska. Right here in my amazing-graffiti-covered-liberal-pot-smoking-artist-swarming-soon-to-be-hipster-infested neighborhood. I know, right?! He was charming and tall and really hot. We had a great time. He is a sailor and lives on a boat just over there and loves the way the sky meets the swirling of the sea. He says it is not unlike the swirling cornfields and empty horizons of Nebraska. (I mean, who says that?! I am not kidding.) We talked about boats for hours. And drank rum. He says that he sails down to Santa Cruz sometimes for happy hour. I think he says that to pick up girls. I asked if getting an SUI was a thing. Drunk drowning is a bad idea. He has leathery crinkles that reach for his temples and windswept hair. Ginger. Like mine. He talks with his eyes way more than his mouth. I always fall for guys who have chatty eyes.

Anyway. He is harboring a broken heart and an old soul. His eyes tell me as much and we banter about college football instead. I mean, my team is good at football, but Nebraska is good at football. At least that’s what he says. I don’t really care, but decide to make up new rules so my team beats the shit out of his most of the time. I mean, it was the only option I had, really. He knew all the numbers and players better than me.

Anyway. He came to my party and brought his brother. Also tall. Also a sailor. Also from Nebraska. I liked that he was there. Plus not all guys can wear busted up jeans and sneakers to a sparkly holiday party and get away with it. He said he had a good time. He liked my green dress. Sure you did. My ass looks really good in that green dress.

Anyway. The brothers from Nebraska play canasta with their Mom, fix old bikes, and take slow-winding train rides across the continental divide. They have stories of giant ocean swells made of sparkling phosphorescence, and tales of dark nights where ripples kiss the edges of their boats as they hover into sleep. And they make stuff. With their hands... For their jobs. I mean. Really. It’s a total racket. My friends like him already and think I have landed in some sort of real-life-Nicolas Sparks novel.

I definitely think he has a motorcycle and a deep emotional connection to Bruce Springsteen. Because how can you have a motorcycle, be from Nebraska, and NOT have a love affair with Bruce Springsteen? I don’t know. I just don’t know.

Anyway. I really like him and he stopped talking to me after that party. So that’s the end of that.