It’s as though I need a girl who knows her current events, catching her peeking over some creased worn copy. We’d be a slow burn, filling in the hours with weather forecasts and Nielsen ratings. Every night over the phone we could run through the obituaries. And maybe on our first night together she could lean in close and whisper something about a recently deposed dictator and I’d laugh and trace outlines of the Balkans on her stomach. Under the covers, I’d finally spill my thoughts on nuclear disarmament, and she’d pull me in like no morning edition ever could.