He always looks a little disheveled—he hasn’t had a haircut in years, and his clothes are falling apart, threads unwinding down his shoulders and hips, buttons missing, ripped jeans. Underneath them, though, is a solid foundation. As I got to know him, I could see that he’s strong, not easily kept down by life’s broken promises and disappointments.
One our first date, we went to an art gallery where terrible graffiti paintings were making everyone dash for the bar in order to blur their vision. But it didn’t matter that the location was a let-down; I immediately felt comfortable with him. He made me laugh and filled me with energy in a way that nobody else had.
There’s something magical about Detroit. Mysterious, too—like where did he learn to speak French? He’s a gifted musician. I’ve never heard anyone sing that way. I don’t even know how old he is—sometimes he seems like a 23-year-old, wide-eyed with the sense that anything is possible, that all of those broken promises can be reinstated and made good. But other times there’s a heaviness to him, and an air of wisdom. He’s seen a lot in his time, has been around the block.
We’ve had such an amazing time together; it’s been a blur of dancing to music, basking in sunshine, and booze, lots of booze, but always so damn cheap, and in the best dive bars. I’ve got a crush on Detroit! The only problem is, I think a lot of other women do, too…