The forces of solitude were crushing me when the damp-sky summer began.I was haunting a corner market designed to look like a Gold Rush general store, buying the cheapest bottle of Pinot Noir and a sushi platter for one, when out of nowhere the bearded guy working the register asked me to dinner.
Also note that this was not because I had some notion that we would end up together long-term, but rather because I was embarrassed to be seen in public with him because of our age difference. At the time, I thought that people would judge us and stare, or even worse, someone might mistake him for my son.
In reality, strangers hardly know there is much of an age difference between us, and they're almost certainly unaware that the difference is about 12.5 years — an age gap that is taboo in our culture.
It was like that Disney movie where a disgraced lion is incapable of facing responsibility, so he leaves home and wallows with some idlers, trying to drown the anguish of not living up to his true purpose by singing “Hakuna matata! But there was no use beating anybody up about it, not even myself.
on a date, because I actually broke every dating rule out there, and invited him over to my house to watch a football game and share dinner.
We were at a bar in the Mission District (the shantytown part of the hood where people pitch tents on the sidewalk) and I was perched contentedly in his lap when a drunken woman paused her winning streak at the pool table, telling us, “I want what you have, guys.” And to him, “You treat this woman right; she’s beautiful.”He ignored the flattery and after a few minutes turned to me, saying, “The only time you’ve said you loved me was the time I tried to break up with you.” I gave a tight smile and continued our pose as the enviable couple.