She called to say she was on her way. We waited for her.

I was the only one on the porch waiting. The others were well-dressed, to make a good impression on her. Sunday best. Knife-pressed pants. Bowties. Pompadours.

Not me. I was shirtless. Sweating. Crossing my legs against the batter in Levi cut-offs. I wanted her to see the real me. When she arrived she smiled and said, “Alright, that will do.” and told me to put some clothes on.

But I refused. So she walked past me and entered the house, where everyone cheered. I followed inside, refusing to change.