From Day One

     On the first night I met you, you fell in love with the waitress.  She had a loud voice and a strong Irish accent.  She wore an oversized t-shirt to minimize her large breasts, and baggy jeans.  No makeup; crooked teeth.  But you thought she was adorable and I liked you immediately.
     The second night we all went out, you got a bloody nose trying to break up a fight outside of a dive bar in the Mission.  The cops detained you for over an hour asking you for details. We waited on the street, watching with the rest of the crowd. You laughed about it afterwards.
     The third night, we stayed up until 9 in the morning.  We'd had enough drinks by 4am to call it a night, but someone dared you to go run outside naked. And you did! At 5:30am, we opened up another bottle of liquor and the three of us that were still awake finished it off. We played hard punk music on low volume and I danced around in my underwear.
     Four days of drinking, dinners, and clubs -- the five of us enjoying the city with fresh eyes.  Then, in Monterey, you were awed by the white sharks. And the perfectly clean, printless tank glass.  We watched Monday night football and you rested your hand on the back of my chair.  I let my hair down so that it would brush against you.
    We arm wrestled, played poker, got naked, read magazines.
    We had one night alone together.  You smelled so good.  The lamb came out perfect. You had rhythm -- you could move your hips to the beat.  I was impressed.
     Ten days and then you got back on your ship.  You took my heart with you.