Still, in spite of it all, I have all these daydreams of marrying him, but it’s never some traditional job with little flower girls and my weeping mother dressed in light blue organdy. No, my fantasy flowed this way. It would be late, two am on a Friday late, after Happy Hour, after a loud, cranking party had wound down at his place and the last guest had left and we would be left eyeing each other. He would come sliding close and kiss me in that way of his that made me spin, and among the pawing at each other that followed, he would suddenly cry out to me in this sweet, soulful, desperate way that I was all he wanted in this crazy life. He would say, “Sweet Jesus I love you so much.” He would have tears in his eyes. And then he would lay it on me. We should get married. Tonight. Get in the car and drive to Reno. And in this scenario I always imagined myself on the floor, half pinned by his hip, clothes askew, heart leaping as I laughed and said, “Yeah, let’s do it.” And I would fumble into my clogs, and grab my jacket and follow him out the door as I readjusted my bra. And then in a drunken clutter we would drive, all fucked up, all fast, up 80 with him smoking cigarette after cigarette and talking all animated about what our life would be like together as I dozed in and out with my head on his shoulder. He would wake me in Reno at 5am, and we would get hitched in the drunken dawn, the complimentary wedding photo capturing a wild runny-eyed time, mascara under my eyes, his shaded with sunglasses, and both of us lidded, gleeful, all, Can you believe what we’ve done? But it’s love, and it’s desperate, and it’s huge, and it’s right.

The rest of the fantasy is not as clear; it’s a vague thing really. One night of hormonal honeymoon bliss in some anonymous Reno hotel. The drive back to Marin, with no regrets, fingers linked over the stick shift, dialing cell phones to inform friends and family of the elopement. And then I empty out my tiny apartment into his tiny house and I claim space.

Okay, here it grows cloudier still, because I get mired down in facts, such as, would I keep my goose down duvet, because he already had one, or would I just stick mine down in the basement? But then I would consider the rainy winters, and my thoughts would drift to mold, and I would think how mothballs might keep a duvet nice and fresh, if it were stored in the proper airtight container, because someday we might need a second duvet, if we had a kid or a guest room, or things didn’t work out and we spilt up, and that’s where the entire fantasy just completely falls apart. And then I remind myself that technically, he’s never really been my boyfriend anyway.

This I know because I could always refer for reference to the list that Marley and I had written one evening in the middle of laugh jag, halfway through listing the litany of complaints about the men we were sleeping with. We called it, The Top Ten Ways To Tell He’s Not Your Boyfriend.

10) If he only calls you back.

9) If he kicks you out of bed before noon.

8) If he throws out your toothbrush.

7) If he’s married.

6) If he lives with another girl.

5) If he says to you on the way out the door the morning after, Catch you in the future Baby, it’s the nature of the beast.

4) If he’s sleeping with someone else.

3) If he lives in New York and you live in San Francisco and Gram Central Station is playing in both San Francisco and LA, and he goes to see them in LA…and doesn’t invite you along.

2) If he won’t take care of you when you’re sick.

And the number one way to tell he’s not your boyfriend? if you can’t break up with him. You know, because, he’s not your boyfriend.

And no matter how he can sway you with a Stay, Babe, and shoot you that slanted eyed smile of his that always makes you rethink things, no matter how he can show his predatory stalking mode strong, or send you little tingles of hope by saying he doesn’t want to shut any doors, or sweep you off the sidewalk in a bear hug and swing you around, no matter all this, no matter all this, you must not forget this list.

Write it down.