Abraham's Unwitting Rebuttal

I had my head on Abraham's stomach as he laid in my bed.

"Tell me the story again about how you threw up in front of your mom," I pleaded. It was one of the first stories he ever told me. He had told it to me the night we first kissed, weeks before I had my drunken night in front of him.

He chuckled and told me the story.

"...And as I'm puking into the Gulf of Mexico, my mom was saying something to me. I like to think it was, 'I'm so proud of you.'"

"Is your mom the kind of person who would say 'I'm so proud of you' while you're drunk and throwing up in the ocean?"

"No."

I laughed softly and closed my eyes and waved my hand across his stomach. The one puking story had jogged his memory and he remembered another one, and another one, and another one.

Abraham ran his hand through his hair. "I never thought of myself as a person who pukes, but I guess I am," he laughed.

"Well these stories span 13 years," I comforted.

With my head facing his toes, I told him about my annual trip to Florida. I had drank my weight in hunch punch before entering Jacksonville's EverBank Field. I had passed out cold during the second quarter and halftime of the football game. “Who does that? Who sleeps in a sold-out football stadium?”

"When it was me, it was halftime and third quarter. Different football game. Same stadium," he smiled.

Abraham was not judgmental of the first night I spent at his place because it's been him numerous times. He understood. More importantly, he was empathetic of the pain I was in.

He laid his hand on the back of my head and brushed my hair down. He wasn't Government Mule. And this was a good thing.