The next morning, I was awakened by him rubbing his hand across my face and through my hair. I opened my eyes to find him smiling at me. It took a moment for my sleepy brain to recognize him. I honestly thought for a brief half second that he was this skate punk kid I had known back in Jersey. But, no, it was the drunk guy from last night. Odd how so many people in the world look similar. He looked a hell of a lot better in this light. Sloppy drunk isn't really pretty on anyone though.

He said, "Can you hear me?"

Which I thought was an odd question at first before I realized that he hadn't actually said anything. His words were in my brain. He repeated himself. This time I whispered "yes". I had never completely bought into the whole psychic thing before then. Even Miss Ivana's psychic stylings still left me thinking she was awfully vague. As for myself, about the most impressive thing my mind had ever been able to do was sometimes I'd know what episode of a tv show was going to come on or pull a Jeopardy answer out of thin air. Not exactly the stuff Kreskins are made of.

Before I could ask my nameless friend how he was doing that, he had already leaned forward and kissed me. And, what can I say? We were young and impulsive and very single. A guy and a girl barely out of their teens sharing a bed doesn't usually end up any other way. Not if they're telling the truth.

Making love with someone, while each of you could hear each other's thoughts is an interesting experience to say the least. Imzadi, I think is the Star Trek word for it. I had never thought one day I'd be comparing my sex life to sci-fi. It didn't happen every time; in fact it was rare. But, it happened this first time. I didn't know why, I just guess some things you don't ask too many questions about.

Afterwards, he held me and unfurled what I assumed to be his entire life's story in about the span of ten minutes. Everything from his friends and their adventures to his alcoholic father and overprotective mother to the most random things. He just talked and talked non-stop. That was the first time I'd heard someone successfully say 'fuck' no less than six times in a single sentence. On other people that might be obnoxious, but there was something about his casual and heavy profanity that I found, I don't know, adorable in a way. He smiled as I told him my far more concise and boring story. Mostly about how I had transferred up here from Rutgers, then quit school, and was now stuck in this boring little town.

I blushed when I realized that I still didn't know his name. I was preoccupied when he was sharing his thoughts with me, so if I'd heard it then I hadn't taken note.

"Joe Clarendon…" was his answer, "…but most people call me Beaver."

"Beaver?"

He rolled his eyes and smiled again. That was his, 'it's just one of those things' expression.

"Mine's Laurie Sue Kenopensky. I don't have a potentially vulgar nickname, though."

He got very quiet for a moment. You know the expression that a baby gets when he's talking a really big shit? Well, that's the exact same expression that Beaver gets when he's deep in thought. I wasn't sure if he was contemplating the origins of his nickname since I brought it up, or he had eaten something the night before that didn't agree with him. As it turns out, neither was the case.

He looked me straight in the eyes and said, "Well, Miss Laurie Sue Kenopensky… will you marry me?"

I don't think I would have been any more shocked at that moment had he turned into a duck. I can't remember what I was thinking, if I was able to think anything. All I do know is that after what seemed like an eternity, I said, "Sure."

He moved into my itty-bitty studio that same day since he was still living with his parents. Thankfully, he didn't bring much as there was no room. He brought things like his clothes and other necessities. Plus, he had a color tv, a couple of tables, and a lamp. That was an awesome lamp. And, of course, he insisted on hanging his silly little dreamcatcher in the corner. We found a place that would marry us, and were Mr. and Mrs. Clarendon before the week was out. It was just the two of us, so we both had to call all of our friends and family and break the news. Most of them sounded bewildered and less than pleased. I was sure that at least some of my relatives were taking bets over how long it would last. Probably some of his as well. Our wedding gifts were money and two toasters. And, some of his friends took us out to dinner.

We were desperately poor, but happy. Happy in the way that only a couple of crazy kids who got married on impulse could be. I had my job at the diner and he did something or other at a factory. I'm not exactly sure now what he did, but it didn't pay very much. He could have worked with his dad and made more, but he wanted to prove he could get his own job or something pseudo macho along those lines.

I said something to him one day about his long hair. I didn't think it suited him. He liked it, but what did he know? He didn't even wear matching socks half the time. He gave me this sob story about why he didn't go to a barber. I talked him into letting me cut his beloved hair. Assuring him that it'd grow back. I don't think I did such a bad job. He grumbled for a little bit, but let me have at it with the scissors whenever I felt like it.

Probably about the most annoying habit of his was the constant chewing of stuff. Well, second to his inability to put the toilet seat down, but that was a universal male problem. His chewing though… ugh. There were toothpicks everywhere in the oddest places. Almost every day I'd find one hanging out of the corner of the interior light of my car. He mangled any pencil he could find. The ends of my ink pens I used at work were chewed flat. None of our hoodies had those little plastic things on the end of the pull strings anymore. If he wore it, that was the end of the plastic thing. I suggested maybe he try gum, but that turned into a disaster. He'd chew things with the gum in his mouth; thus getting gum stuck to everything. God love him, he never was very bright.