I woke up to pee and rolled out of her bed and stumbled from her room through the short hallway into the shared hall bathroom. In my sleepy and pants-less state I just pulled down my boxer briefs and began to pee and groan softly with the release. It was then that I noticed that slightly darker splotch on my left leg of my boxers. The mix with the green fabric looked almost purple but I knew what it was as soon as I saw it. It was her blood, or menstrual fluid or whatever, and my initial reaction was one of revulsion. I mean I have seen used tampons in the toilet and used pads in the trash and thought nothing of it but this was on my person, touching my by bleeding through my underwear, that was until I realized why it was placed where it was. She had wrapped her legs around my leg to press herself harder into me. To better comfort and touch me. To be more intimate and tactile. And for the thousandth time in my life something that at the start offended me, or made me feel ill at ease became something soothing, comforting, and above all else proof that I might just be cared for in the sort of way that I truly want to be.
So I finished peeing and I didn’t wash my hands because fuck that and I walked back into her room and crawled back into her bed, but before I did I took off my underwear and when she wrapped her legs around mine I felt no sense of ickyness or hesitation and I pressed her body into mine and fell into a deep and powerful sleep.
I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.
I ate one of your little gifts tonight. I usually same them for rainy(depressing) days. I have been wasting these on slow solo nights watching TV and pretending the rest of the world can wait.
If it wasn’t for Tony right now I would be miserable.
I had to box up the records that are going to the Sanford store and it felt like being payed to dig your own grave.
He tired to choose his words carefully. He knew that in some small way that these would be the ones that she remembered most of all. That this would be the lasting image she would day dream about in her rest home at eighty slipping out of increasingly longer bouts of dementia sipping on spiked coffee and trying to get comfortable in bed. Or maybe sooner, like on her wedding day, where while in her dressing room she recounts all of her past lovers and says a silent goodbye to them and the life she could have shared with them. Or even soon like in a year or two from now when they catch each others eye walking down the crowded streets going from one inhospitable place to the other. Or maybe even sooner, like tomorrow when she feels no regret in leaving. This was his chance to shine and become a part of her ever increasing tapestry of her own history to be. if not told, thought of in quite moments of reflection. Part of him needed this to be memorable to her. He needed her to want to remember these last few honest words, the last honest words he may ever have for her. So he paused and thought for a second, then he had the thought again and rechecked his phrasing and prepared to speak.
"Yeah, well…" and then he vomited. He had felt it coming just at the last second and turned his head away from her and puked full into the street next to his car parked outside of her house. He wretched violently and began to cry uncontrollably over and over. The snot running down his face a mix of mucus, bile, and tears. He couldn’t open his eyes and didn’t particularly want to. There was nothing to see anyway. Just the ever growing pile of half digested food and shame sprawling out in front of him.
The puking slowly left him, but the crying continued and he slumped backwards sitting and leaning his back against his car hoping she had left him now. Hoping she had seen enough of this scene almost immediately. He grabbed his shirt and flipped it up to his face to wipe the his face and when he finished, still softly crying she was standing there three feet away cross armed and stern faced. It was not the last impression he intended on making.
I was asked to do some illustration work for a children’s book. That seems pretty neat.
I saw him around. The kind of mostly nondescript individual that blows in and out of the mundane locations of your life. He is at the bank, or the grocery store, or there when you are picking up filters and oil at the auto parts place. Your eyes meet for a time and you nod sort of half saying “I acknowledge your existence.” Maybe once or twice I held the door open for him. Nothing too big, just your garden verity pleasantries that if I had the energy or the disposition I would show everyone. That is what we two shared. A four year long relationship of being sort of aware that each other existed and need to buy food, or put money away, or make sure our cars didn’t break on us.
Then I sort of feel out of a relationship and landed very hard on the ground. So I went to this bar down the road from my usual place. My usual place full of people who wanted to console me, or maybe blame me, hard to tell at that point. All I wanted to do was have a drink not alone at a place that couldn’t possibly have known my name. I just wanted to feel like a person again and not a disaster area. So I pop into what i know is going to be a sleepy night at a local watering hole and there he fucking is. There he is at his bar doing his thing. I immediately feel like leaving. This is his home, that stool might even be his perch. The one where for six or seven years he has spent his nights trying to be not at home just like me. It feels wrong to intrude. It feels wrong to complicate our not knowing each other. That by even sitting down and ordering a drink that are unspoken bond of menial solidarity would be broken and we then would ignore each other in line for groceries and never make eye contact ever again. That I would lose ground on this precious space.
So I walked out the door and drove home and then next time I saw him i couldn’t make eye contact.
I was tempted to call you tonight while I was waiting for the boys to arrive with the gear before practice. I didn’t obviously. Not because I didn’t want to hear the sound of your voice, but just because I had nothing to say. For some reason I think phone calls should serve a purpose.
Some pictures of me and some of my favorite people courtesy of the distinguished Miss Lindsay DeBockler.