Single white male

I've been six feet away from a total stranger for the past six weeks. We pass each other in the hall, bump into each other in the kitchen, watch the same TV show and frequently park next to each other and walk into the apartment together.

But all in silence.

Sure, there's the nod, the half wave, the mutual laughter at "Scrubs." But there's no dialogue, no understanding, no underlying sense of friendship unspoken. There's just awkwardness.

And plenty of it.

I'll admit, that a lot of it can be traced back to me. After two or three days living together, I noticed three details that said, "He and I shan't be friends."

1. He told me he's not a "going out kinda guy."
2. He's into motorcycles.
3. I couldn't remember his name.

The first two aren't necessarily character faults, just inconveniences. He could just as easily been into salsa dancing or country music or Ingmar Bergman, any of which I might have tolerated, in small doses. But, no, he was Mr. Man from Michigan who spent money on a motorcycle even though he could only drive it two to three months out of the year (his admission) and despite the fact it made him less, not more cool (my assertion).

The third detail, I'll admit, is entirely my fault. I guess I decided in my head that his name was Kevin or Ryan or something like that. Anyway, I spent the first week avoiding any direct contact. I think when I moved in that I was more concerned with the unpacking/ relocating/ reinventing scenario than remembering specifics about the Wisconsin-sounding louse on the couch.

I mean. I forgot.