Hunters Road, Connecticut

I used to sort of date a boy who delights in making overblown portentous statements. We were chatting this afternoon and he concluded that, “all of Connecticut is just a suburb of New York City,” but he has no idea what he’s talking about. I realized this this evening as I was driving through the woods to  see a guy I’d sort of like to date. I drove gleefully and shifted gears enthusiastically in time with my blaring Afro-pop music as the West Hartford suburbs faded into Farmington and then smaller towns and then collections of houses and I struggled to read my hurriedly-scrawled directions by the dim glow of the blinking yellow traffic lights. The dark forest seemed to envelope the road.  I hugged the snaking guardrail that followed the river, admired the bright moonlight reflected on the ice-covered water, playfully drummed the steering wheel to the beat of the Afro-pop with my free hand, and admitted to and reveled in being lost. In the forest! In Connecticut! When I finally arrived at my friend’s house atop a precipitous corkscrew road  he offered to make dinner. “Are you hungry?” He opened the refrigerator and paused. “We have…deer steak.” “Really? That’s awesome.” “Yeah, my father shot it himself.” He looked at me quizzically and added, “That freaks most people out.” A few hours later I was leaving just as his parents were coming home and his father asked me pointedly, “Now where are you from originally? Are you from Connecticut?” “No, I’m actually originally from Idaho.” He raised his eyebrows in what seemed like happy surprise. “Idaho! Wow, now there is a place I wouldn’t mind going someday.” “John’s into hunting, you see,” my friend’s mother explained sweetly. “Yes, I admired the white-tail hanging on the wall in there.” My friend’s mother smiled and burst out, “Oh, so that doesn’t bother you?! Yes, you must be used to that sort of thing!” She jabbed her husband in the ribs and assured me, “He likes you already.” Well, that’s something.

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