The Ride of Shame
I had a date the other night with a girl I’ve long wanted to know better. There had been talk about a ride on my motorcycle for some time now and a few nights ago all that talk became reality. We had a not-unpleasant time. Drinking. Talking. A little more talk and and a little more…drinking. It got late. She stayed over. It was really rather innocent. As innocent as those things ever are. Early the next morning, I took her home. As we’re riding down the dawn-lit street, my motorcycle acting the part of Apollo’s chariot, a car pulls up next to us. It was Stephanie (not her real name…though I do know a Stephanie, this isn’t that Stephanie). Stephanie and I have been friends for a long time; including a different story that begins with a glass of wine. But I digress. With coffee in one hand and steering wheel in the other, Stephanie rolled down her window and offered a cheery good morning! She was on her way to work; to do a training. She asked us where we were headed, expecting, I think that we were on our way to work as well; until realizing—once she noticed the tossled hair and wrinkled shirts—that we were probably just finishing our night. We had a laugh. And it only became awkward once we met at the next light with nothing new to say. Such is life, I suppose. On the bright side, at least I didn’t make the girl walk home. #gentlemanoftheyear