We were newlyweds, living in a grungy apartment.
Each morning, I would wake before her. I would pass my morning hours writing poetry on a yellow legal pad, sipping coffee.
Mostly, I’d write the kinds of god-awful things you’d expect newlyweds to write. I’m talking painfully corny stuff. I’d leave these poems on slips of paper scattered throughout our apartment for her to find.
One such poem read:
“Together, the two of us,
“In thought, and deed, and breath, and heart,
“Shall never be lacerated apart.”
Gag me with a number-two pencil. “Lacerated?” What kind of a dork uses that word? In fact, I’m not certain this verb works in this particular case.
LACERATE [verb: las-uh-reyt] lac·er·at·ed, lac·er·at·ing
1. to tear; mangle; rip. Example: “Hey dude, that poem you wrote really freakin’ lacerated.”
My wife saved all my crummy poems in a shoebox, and today they reside in a storage closet.
Anyway, when we first married we lived in an apartment that smelled like dead squirrels, and I am not being figurative. I mean our apartment
actually had a nest of decomposing squirrels in the attic above our master bedroom.
The place was tiny, about as ugly as homemade underpants. The tenant before us had painted the walls black and greenish-gray. Sherwin Williams officially titled this color “Seasick Granite®.”
When we moved in, we made the place our own. We painted the walls brown and khaki. We bought a used coffee table and some scented candles.
My friend, Chubbs, found an old console television on the side of the road. I was lucky enough to claim the TV before the garbage man came.
The thing was heavier than a dead man, but we got it up the stairs. Chubbs, however, would suffer from severe disc degenerative problems for the rest of his life.
Our building sat across the street from a Waffle House, a Chick-fil-A, and an…