Keith Parker

He once took a shower in his socks while using a dandruff shampoo that had a slash mark in its brand name. She once took a tub bath wearing her bra while drinking a glass of Merlot from a bottle that had a kangaroo on the label.

He studied mathematics because he believed that Taylor series expansions were an artistic expression of higher consciousness. She played the violin because the notes were like differential equations floating into the ether.

He loved a stout beer with a grilled cheese sandwich, especially if it was made from Monterey Jack, Gouda, and Havarti on sourdough bread. She once threw her rum and Coke in the face of a guy who'd been following her across campus. He tailed her down the stairway of a frat house. She slung the drink over her shoulder, getting most of it on him, but also splattering the new top she'd gotten at Target that day.

He once dug three holes in his front yard simply to make the neighbors wonder what he was doing. Although he was simply messing with them, the exercise helped him solve a tricky line integral problem. She once told a friend (over espresso and an everything bagel) that she was allergic to dirt. It was a fib, but it made for good conversation.

He read Pat Conroy's novels by the light of a lamp shaped like Yoda. He was fascinated by the contradictions and moral shades of gray that permeated Southern culture. She streamed the original Star Wars trilogy with ska music playing at low volume because she’d memorized all of the films’ dialogue. She cherished the movies’ themes of good versus evil.

He once took narcotic cough medicine when he wasn't sick and dreamed of hippopotamuses marching down the Nile riverbank. She once smoked weed and took her remote control apart. She was unable to stream Star Wars after that.

He once installed a miniature whiteboard in his shower so he could jot down mathematics epiphanies before the steam erased them. Months later he began leaving it blank, deciding the problems should remain unsolved. She once hid Post-its with violin fingerings all over her apartment. A year later she used them as bookmarks.

They actually saw each other at a showing of Silence of the Lambs. He liked Jodie Foster. She liked Anthony Hopkins. They didn’t talk, but each liked the other’s body.

He once scavenged a discarded satellite dish to build a backyard radio telescope, certain he’d catch whispers from beyond. After weeks of receiving useless static, he painted the dish to look like a sunflower. She once posted a 2,000-word manifesto on littering to every campus lamppost. When no one read past the title, she started baking brownies shaped like recycling symbols and handed them out before football games.

He once drafted a snarky blog essay ridiculing romantic clichés, only to delete it after realizing it masked his hope for a tryst. She once wore noise-canceling headphones on commuter trains to avoid small talk, then began removing them to trade dog-eared book recommendations with strangers. (The books were marked with Post-It Notes.)

He nearly sold his laptop to fund a backpacking trip. She nearly sold her violin in order to buy a dirt bike.

He once read an ad for a vacation cabin in Alaska and, for the first time, seriously considered the possibility. She once browsed the web for insulated parkas rated for Antarctic temperatures. She wondered if astronauts would wear them on Mars.

They met in the winter clothing section of REI next to a display of hiking boots. They talked until the manager had to dim the lights because it was closing time.

The first time they made love, he wore socks and she wore a bra.

He Once Took a Shower in His Socks

Keith Parker

What Else is There?

The Stranded Prophet