My first date in my own four walls probably went just as chaotically as everyone else’s: While I was dealing with my visitor, a double bed was delivered in the background so that the sex that was to come later would not be too uncomfortable.
“Only two things are infinite. The universe, and the smallness of one’s own bed when lady is visiting.”
That quote was in a relationship guidebook I had picked up at a bookstore weeks before the first date. The bookstore was actually a furniture store, and the relationship guidebook was a furniture catalog, but I wouldn’t call it a lie if I called furniture catalogs books. The telephone book is also a book. And since phone books have long since ceased to be what they once were, it’s now up to furniture stores to publish books that strong people can tear apart on television.
Anyway, I had thought it was a good idea to buy a new bed at the time. That the furniture store would deliver on the evening when my date was already sitting in the living room talking to me about the weather had of course been foreseeable, after all, they always deliver on the day when it had actually not suited you, which had of course been noted when ordering, but who cares.
So I was sitting in the living room, talking to my beloved and at the same time giving instructions to the suppliers on how to set up the bed. At first I tried to explain to my date that all this had nothing to do with her, but I could tell from her look that she didn’t believe me. So I confessed to her that I was on the hunt for the Sims 4 achievement, for which you had to sleep with fifty different people. And she was just here and the bed was new and somehow you had to see if a screw was loose and if it squeaked, and actually the evening was really okay in the end and so was the bed.
The next day I was standing around in the museum with my bed tester, first looking at art and then at my companion, and based on her description I realized for the first time that she was a young adult. I was startled. After all, I was an adult. The designation “young adult” is reserved only for those who cannot admit to themselves that they are adults. I am just over thirty-five years old. That’s old. So I am an adult. Not young adult. So there I was, an old man, standing around in the museum with a woman by my side who calls herself a young adult. How low can you actually go? What would people think? The old art lover with a young lover? No. I didn’t want to end up like that.
Luckily, at that moment I saw an adult disappear into the museum restroom. I disappeared after her, ignoring her call for privacy, and to make a long story short: The new bed was really flawlessly fine. Nothing squeaked there that shouldn’t.
I haven’t seen the young adult since then, I’ll stay away from the museum for the next few weeks out of politeness, since there are no house bans in Sims 4 but there should be, I ignore the young adult’s calls and yes, OK, of course I see her from time to time, especially when she rings my doorbell, but now let’s all not be too petty and no one can force me to open the door, except of course the police, but then again she wasn’t THAT young adult.
Besides: still forty-eight.
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