You are looking at the original hopeless lover. I love it all, the first few phone calls, her hair in a bandanna, getting drunk together the first time, seeing her teensy underwear. The normal pit in your stomach is replaced by a whirling feeling. Then those beginning-couple weeks together, where you’re sort of thinking about it no matter what else you’re thinking of. There’s no ruminating about what to live for when the alarm goes off before work in the morning. You find a long hair of hers stuck to the sleeve of your suit, and you hold it up to the light. For the next ten minutes you are stoned, picturing last night. You take her to a really fancy restaurant for dinner, you go shopping together, you go on double dates, you decide whose house to sleep at. You call her on the phone and then call back—“One more thing …” One evening after another is righteous. It’s nice. You’re her boyfriend now, nobody else calls. She starts to talk rotten about her old boyfriend. You meet her friends, you meet her family, you say what your kids will look like, you think about marrying her.

I love being in love. I’m so in love, I’m so in love. Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m in love with. I’m in love with the love drug.

You walk into a supermarket or a restaurant, your girlfriend goes in first and you’re looking at her ass. And you say to yourself, “Isn’t that the most beautiful ass? That’s mine. It’s beautiful.” Like it’s going to save you. An ass isn’t going to save you. What’s it going to do? Hide you from the police? Call up your boss when you don’t feel well?

•      •      •

MY GIRLFRIEND LOUISE and I went to a party—mostly advertising people I knew through work. It began late and followed a long day where all I wanted was a simple meal in front of the TV. But I knew I’d hate myself if I missed it. Things happen at parties that your friends talk about for weeks, sometimes for years. You can’t miss them. You can’t get in on a great joke after the fact.