The place is quite clean. The walls are either bone white or powder blue. He didn't choose any of it -- it's a rental. Furniture is a hodgepodge ranging from a recliner he said was left behind and quick thrift finds because he couldn't stand the sight of a living room with no couch. He apparently used to have matching furniture, but abadoned it when he didn't feel like renting a UHaul for the move.
The best piece of furniture is the old record player with milk crates full of vinyl by some of his favorite bands -- mine, too.
Some of the art is modest. Some of it is not.
Most of it is his or a friends.
There is one poster: the cover "London Calling." It lacks a frame.
The modest 24-inch TV sits on a small square table.
His kiss is both. At first it was slow, but it got more intense. Because he's older, he didn't immediately try to jam his tongue down my throat. He executed his kiss by asking me nicely on the walk to Turkey Hill if he'd be able to. I answered without opening my mouth if you know what I mean. It lasted no more than three seconds. Later ones would be much longer.
Music was an automatic because we were listening to "Let It Be," maybe not the best bedside music, but when you're distracted with touching and kissing, Paul Westerberg singing about his favorite thing doesn't matter.
Socks were kept on, but then again, so were pants. The lamp was still on, and we never made it off the reddish-brown couch. I guess he says sex, because to quote him, he doesn't have that on date one.
But that's OK, because this all happened between 5 and 6 a.m., and I was interrupted by a call at 6:08 asking where I was.