Three cigarettes and two pints
later, I was seeing him
differently, fascinated by the
shift in perspective. My
internal dialogue observed the
transformation as he spoke
about code as a language, as
something beautiful. At this
proximity, he came into focus
like the Snellen chart and I
could point out all his tumbling
Es. We struggle to see the
fine details at a distance, I
suppose visually,
emotionally.
And as he spoke about authors
Ive never read, a bunch of
someone-vskys, his mind
started to take up all the
space his body didnt, and by
the end of the night he was
quite tall. Long and lanky,
smoking a cigarette by the
terrace. Half inside, half out.
Hed just convinced me not
to leave after telling me I
looked like Keira Knightley
dont) and a girl hed had a
crush on growing up. And, by
the way, the girl we ran into
downstairs was quite pretty,
wasnt she? It was mean,
hed confessed, and hed
said it defensively to create
distance. Interesting
confession. Honest. So, Id
taken off my shoes again and
dived right back under the
covers. Clean sheets. A book
on the nightstand. Happy again,
hands flapping, foot thumping
against the mattress like a
dogs tail.
Youre crazy, he said,
but cute. Thick, black-
brown eyebrows. A toke of his
cigarette.
And he was right I am kind
of crazy, but the
acknowledgement of it felt
liberating. I felt seen,
accepted. Sure, its
reasonable to be upset about
blowing somebody and having
them, a moment later, say the
neighbours pretty. I mean,
its basic self-respect.
Staring up at the ceiling and
crying, however, was not the
appropriate response. Leaving
would have been, but I didnt
mind the apology, the holding
of my hand, the transparency.
It was kind of like yes,
youre a crying lunatic and
Im rude, but please stay.
Unless you want to go, of
course, but Id rather you
not. Come on, hed said, we
spent 12 amazing hours
together. Sweet, his voice.
Delicate.
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