He was too earthy, too down and dirty, too north to my south, too swarthy for my Irish freckled white, and yet we melded, until that restaurant, when it came apart. It was his lack of couth, uncertain as he was about forks, or how to speak to waiters, that scuttled us, and so dismayed my family, unfairly to be truthful, given it was the only time they met. Bravado did not help him that night.
It wasn’t just him. I would not kiss an icon of the risen Jesus in his mother’s church; he could not make small talk with my friends. We disagreed on everything concrete: wall color (too vulgar) to cars (not muscle enough for him). I fished resentfully on our vacations; he viscerally hated the ballet.
Now, I only remember the shape of his muscled shoulders the day I saw him first.
Image: Graham @ GrahamIsJustMyName blog
For: 63rd Challenge, Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
Word count: 148