Slippage

The first time, under the impression that it was sensing an excess of smoke emanating from a still-lit candle, M3's over-zealous fire detection device startled us awake at 2am. It was the Sunday concluding our five days together. We were mutually, though joyously, sleep deprived, thus succumbing to slumber far earlier than usual. And without our customary late night sexual fanfare.

Until the smoke alarm went off, that is.

I mean, really, what else is there to do in the middle of the night when you're now both totally awake because one of you stood al fresco in the living room, desperately waving a hand towel towards the ceiling in a focused five minute effort to get the fucking thing to shut up, while the other watched the shenanigans from the bedroom, giggling the whole time?

The second time, which also happened to be last night, it wasn't a candle, but instead fondue that was the catalyst for a unexpected and surprising event.

Under the erroneous impression that we'd successfully convinced the device that there was no longer an imminent threat of fire, M3 and I hit the sheets. Roughly 30 minutes later, after having my concentration broken by yet another totally unnecessary alarm brought on for no apparent reason whatsoever, I put forth a firm request. M3 was seriously going to need to let his landlord know asap that the supposed life-saving device was becoming quite a nuisance. I simply couldn't work under these conditions.

"Yeah, I'll make sure to tell him that it went off when I was having sex with my girlfriend."

I was so stunned by what I'd just heard, I had little choice but to just leave it out there.

Suspended in the ether.

Hovering right above us.

Just waiting to be brought back down to earth by a sarcastic comment (me) or a justification or explanation or bashful acknowledgement (him).

None of which happened.

So, I returned to the task at hand.

(After all, I had a job to do.)

Earlier in the evening, as we dined on the floor of M3's apartment, I came clean. I'd told my mom about him on the phone that morning, figuring if M3 felt ready to go open kimono with the sister, I could do likewise with my mother. Sharing our saga with friends, while certainly representative that we were both pretty optimistic about the future, was one thing. Baring all to next of kin was an entirely different situation altogether.

And then, somewhere between M3 losing an asparagus spear in the bubbling cauldron of fromage and when he inadvertently took a chunk out of my thigh with his fondue fork, I managed -- genuinely in the spirit of simple information-sharing and with absolutely no agenda in sight -- to casually mention that the very same mother would be coming to visit in June.

"So...will she mind hearing us have sex in the next room?" M3 inquired.

Surely he was joking.

His comment was sick and wrong, although given our apparent inability to keep our hands off of one another, especially when we're challenged by societal norms to do so, it was also an entirely valid question to be asking.

His comment, however, was also loaded with subtext.

I pressed onward.

Did he indeed just indicate a voluntary willingness to meet my former-psychologist-and-current-divorce-attorney of a mother? Like, three and a half months from now?

"Well, if we're still seeing each other come June, it would seem to make perfect sense to meet your mother."

Fully disoriented by the sensibility inherent in his rationale, I can't remember if I managed to divert the conversation to something entirely unrelated or if the piercing screech of the smoke detector took care of the task for me.

Though now, in retrospect, I'm not sure why I was so startled by M3's words.

Because meeting the mother...

Well, I guess that's just what you do when someone's your girlfriend.