It was supposed to be a drunken fling, a drunken confessional, a sweet enactment of inner passions never to be spoken of again.

I feel this feeling, the relationship feeling, as I talked on the phone with him this morning to arrange a date for tonight. His voice was all shakey - blatantly nervous. But this feeling, the feeling of accelerating relationship status, the feeling that I now have to report to someone and justify my daily itinerary.

He asked where I was last night.

What could I say? It was the Playoff Party. Guess who's French Onion Soup I tried? Ha! Boy was that ever tastey. And he made poutine too - cheese curd fresh from Montreal. Then we drank beer and watched the game. The game is always good when we win. One bong per goal.

Somehow I was wrestling someone and I got a scrape just above my eye. I fell asleep on the couch with the dog.

This morning he made crepes with maple syrup. I also noticed that the tiles in the bathroom were fleur-du-lis (or however it's spelled).

I tell this to my mother and she says: "Honey, the man cooks! You need to cultivate this friendship further." And right then my cell phone vibrates in my pocket and it's the Fair Fling.