Practically Cousins

My mother had said he looked like my dad and I didn’t disagree. He was tall, had thin brown hair and deep brown eyes. I must have found him attractive. But looking back now I don’t know how I did. Maybe the still photo captured something the live version didn’t.

In person, he was tall but shifty. He couldn’t sit still. His eyes darted. His tongue dashed. His shoulders were hunched. He smelled like BO.

Our first date was at an old theater in Portland. The front section was couches, but the back half was overstuffed chairs positioned around tables.

This is where I headed. The chair enveloping me, the table the right amount of distance. We were enjoying the movie in parallel. Without the pressure of closeness sofas would have implied.

Afterwards we went to eat dinner at a pub with sidewalk tables. Smooth wooden picnic tables stained a deep reddish brown. We shared a pizza. His bike was chained to a tree nearby. The tire removed and a thick silver chain threaded through it.

He talked a lot about biking. Commuting by bike from his computer something-or-other job. Racing on the weekends.

It was a warm evening. He talked about his body odor. Didn’t apologize but acknowledged it was strong. From all the biking.

There wasn’t much room for me in the conversation, so I occupied myself with eating. I had a slice halfway to my mouth when he leaned across the table and held onto my wrist.

“Don’t worry about your weight.” He said, solemnly, meeting my eyes fully now. He really did have beautiful eyes. “My last girlfriend was 400 lbs. And we still had sex. So, your size is nothing.”

I audibly gulped. He looked encouraged. I lowered the pizza.

I wasn’t worried about my weight. And sex was far from the table.

We hugged at his bike tree when the evening was over. I held my breath against the damp.

The next date was shorter. It is hard to explain how I was looking forward to it. In the week since our movie date there had been a flurry of emails. Intelligent, funny, interesting exchanges. The kind of banter that left the door open. I wasn’t all in, but I was interested enough to see what would happen.

We were meeting at a restaurant on my side of town, in Raleigh Hills. I waited on the outdoor porch. The evening had already started to dim and a breeze brushed past my face and freshly shaven legs. I could feel it was later than it should be. I did not yet own a cell phone. I didn’t wear a watch. I only had a pager, which never buzzed.

He finally showed up, on his bike. His pant leg tucked into knee high socks.

It was much further than he had thought it would be. In traffic. From 20 miles away. He made as if he was going to hug me, but I stayed seated.

The conversation was lighter, more textured, more like our emails had been. We talked about our families. He explained how his family is German from North Dakota but had come over from Russia. I laughed. So had mine. My family still lived in North Dakota. We were practically cousins. I told him how my mother had said he looked like my dad. He wasn’t amused.

Before the night was done, he invited me to watch him race. There was a track in the neighborhood not far from the restaurant. He’d be there on Saturday.

We hugged again at his bike. He looked at me. “I am serious what I said before. I would totally have sex with you.”

I laughed again, carried away by the soft early-summer breeze. “I’m not having sex with you.” And I wasn’t even disgusted to say so.

Saturday was hot. It had only been a couple days since our dinner date and there were no follow-up emails, from either of us. I printed the MapQuest directions to the racetrack. It was at a well-known dairy in the area. I knew the place.

I drove around the parking lot several times, without finding a spot. Cyclists were entering the arena with their thin-wheeled racing bikes. Families were milling around the concession stands just outside the walkway.

I followed the arrows to the overflow parking in the back field. By the cows. The air conditioning in my car wasn’t working and the smell from the barns reminded me of his BO. I imagined him racing, in the heat, sweating. Wanting a hug. Wanting to tie down his bike into the hatchback of my Omni so I could give him a ride home. Wanting to invite me up to his room in a house he shared with five other guys.

I reached the back of the parking area. All the cars lined up in parallel. The overflow circled around to a one-way exit.

I kept going.

Back onto the narrow country road that led into town. My windows down to catch what breeze I could, the air getting fresher with every turn.

Author’s note: Written by me with light editorial assistance from Binya in ChatGPT-5.2. Including this weird and strangely appropriate image.