Pole-Dancing

This week, I've been picking up Mike from work between midnight and one a.m. He calls, mumbles sleepily into the phone, and I get myself out of bed to go pick him up. It's a three-minute drive so, by the time I've pulled on some clothes and shoes, he is standing at the curb just outside his office. It's on a fairly major street downtown, so he just hops in and away we go. The later it is, the more eagerly he is standing on the curb, waiting for me to bring him home.

Last night, he called after I'd fallen asleep. It was well after one a.m. I got out of bed, pulling on a pair of pink striped pajama pants we bought in Peru and a red zip-up hoodie. That was it. My hair was wet and pinned up all over my head in a big, piled mess. Mascara was smeared on my face. I fumbled into the car, prayed I wouldn't get pulled over looking like this, and drove the two minutes to Mike's office.

He was sitting on the steps outside, shoulders hunched, eyes on the sidewalk. When I pulled closer, he looked up with a sheepish smile and slunk over to the car.

"Are you okay?" I asked as he got in.

He gave me a tired, mischevious smile and pointed to the second floor of the bar right across the street. There, in the floor-to-ceiling windows were three women pole-dancing in faux fur bikinis. Suddenly, I realized the street was full of people coming in and out of the bar.

I looked up at the women. I looked down at myself--my pink sweatpants, red hoodie and--yep, there's a whole in my pants. Great. I looked at the curb where Mike had been politely looking at the sidewalk.

"Well, sorry you have to go home with me!" I said. I sort of meant it.

I don't know how to explain what happened next. But Mike leaned his head against the back of the seat, gave a content smile, and peacefully closed his eyes for the short car ride home. He was more than happy to go home with me, and I know it wasn't just because he was tired. He made me feel like home itself.