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Cam tries to explain it to a girlfriend, once, how his heart just wants to pound out of his chest to get higher in the air. How the feeling of weightlessness in the moment you level out before losing altitude is the closest he ever comes to bliss.
She just looks at him, kind of sad, kind of annoyed. He shrugs after a while and changes the subject.
She's practical, two feet firmly on the ground. She drives a compact, fuel efficient car and goes to the dentist twice a year. He doesn't have anything against oral hygiene, especially since he kisses her pretty often, but nothing is ever a surprise.
They don't last very long. She gets annoyed that his phone is never on, that he always smells like oil, that he never wants to meet her parents.
He's not too sad for it to end.
John's phone is never charged. He forgets he even has one, most of the time. He's got a five-o'clock shadow at eight in the morning, and his hair could use some serious gel.
His breath smells like beer the first time they kiss, and he bites at Cam's mouth.
It's weightless; it's bliss.