The Hitchhiker's Guide To Romance

I’m hitchhiking through Georgetown, Indiana, when a stranger on a motorcycle pulls over and offers me a ride. We rumble past familiar landmarks—McDonald’s, Circle K, Gas n’ Stuff—kicking up dust as the engine hums beneath us. Without warning, he slams on the brakes, jolting me forward. We skid to a stop beside a food cart manned by an unexpected figure: my high school history teacher. The scent of sizzling burgers, hot dogs, and sausages wafts through the air as he flips patties with the same authority he once wielded over lectures. Moments later, a second vendor rolls up, setting up a neighboring cart stocked with chilled drinks, their condensation glinting in the sunlight.

The motorcyclist doesn’t linger. He revs the engine and swings us back toward where we started, weaving through the streets until we reach a modest house. He drops me off without a word, and I step inside to find my tutor waiting. She’s already sprawled across her bed, a laptop propped up with a video queued—something about physics or chemistry, one of those sciences that blur together in my mind. I join her, sinking into the mattress as the lecture drones on. My attention drifts. The equations and diagrams fade into background noise, and I glance at her. Her eyes remain fixed on the screen, unwavering, absorbed.

Restless, I shift closer and let my hand brush her leg. My fingers trace a soft, tentative path along her skin. She stiffens slightly, then turns to meet my gaze. Eye contact has always been a struggle for me—a quiet battle of wills against my own instincts—but I fight to hold it now. Her stare is steady, searching. My pulse quickens as my brain screams to look away, but I don’t. She reaches for the remote, her voice cutting through the tension. “Yeah, we’re done with this.” With a click, the screen goes dark, and the room falls silent.

I wake up

Fight Night

Dream 9/28/2014

     I'm running up the side stairs of a stadium. The event tonight is fight Night. Whether it's boxing or UFC, I can't be sure. The musical entertainment starts to play. It's The Beatles.

     I make it into the stadium. I come to a ticket table. Me and the girl next to me are eyeing each other. I ask the ticket lady how much a private suite would be. She tells me around a million dollars. I tell her how my dad has a private suite at the Lucas Oil Stadium for the Indianapolis Colts. I ask for two regular seats, one for me and one for the attractive lady in line next to me.

     The attractive girl and I start walking down the large stadium halls toward our seats. A different musical act starts to play. It's Bon Jovi. We never make it to our seats.

     I walk outside, to the parking lot, where I find a large metal wagon with a small bird tied to it. A crowd consisting of people who have helped put fight night together, stands near. We are asked to enter the wagon. The bird takes off and so does the wagon. We begin flying through the air. The deal is that a parent of one of us helpers cooks us dinner for each fight night. Tonight is my dad's turn to cook. 

    The wagon descends into an open patch near the woods. Wooden cabins separate the woods from the opening. I see my dad. He's cooking up some good ole' fashioned burgers, brats and hot dogs. The wagon lands. The bird takes a rest. Dream ends

I wake up.