Such an interesting person.
Such interesting features: a
dance of strength and delicacy.
An aquiline nose, imperial.
Graceful, he was, hip bones
protruding as he stretched, T-
shirt revealing a shy snail trail
over his mocha skin, belly
button yawning. His torso so
long, so pretty. Effeminate, the
kind Id usually shy away
from as though they were
embarrassing to be seen with.
I suppose genuinely liking
somebody removes the shame,
though, and inspires us to just
be. I was comfortable with my
body, with my hair. Didnt
think twice. He just was, and
now I think we belong to an
earlier generation, to the days
of yellow crooked teeth, of
bare skin and vulgar
accessories. Cant we all
just be grotesquely pretty or
charmingly ugly, like a young
Kate Moss or just like him: an
alien beauty in a T-shirt
tucking his hair behind his ear.
Hed just given me his hair
tie as Id forgotten mine.
I could have spent days in his
bed, if Im being honest.
Could have had a tea party on
his bedroom floor, played
dress-up. Theres a juvenile
faith to all these rituals, a
verdant exuberance for life.
But sometimes I misattribute
this magic, my magic, to
others. Though the present is
often disenchanting, as Ive
mentioned, I can be very good
at being present. When I am,
people question the
authenticity of it. Fickle, they
think, for feeling so intensely.
Though the moments all
there is, really. And when
youve got a good one (or a
handfu, you seize it. I wonder
how much of it was my magic
and how much of it was his.
Sometimes, I think Im a wind
instrument, hollow, and
something sings through me.
Im a doorframe, empty, a
portal into another world.
People see it, and I know they
do. But they also fear it.
Question it. He saw it, felt it.
Smile reaching his eyes. Tender
brushing of my arm.
Contemplating me. But when
the moments over, reality
resumes. Im sorry I made
you feel something, Id like to
say, and Im sorry that
scared you. Open relationship,
hes in. It slipped out in an
anecdote. Swept under the rug
like a pin, popcorn in couch
cushions. Other emotional
commitments, he has.
Indecisive. Overwhelmed in his
own words. Sweet. Well-
intentioned. Confused.
Sometimes, I wish people
would just tell me the
desmaquillada truth. Hey, I
have a girlfriend whom I love
and Im only looking for
something casual. Then I could
say: OK, well Im not sure
where my life is taking me
anyway, but Id like to be
present with you again just
like this. Hows Saturday at
six? Nobody ever tells me,
though. They underestimate my
understanding and magnify my
madness.
Wasnt limerence, was it? I
said it wasnt. Maybe it was.
But it was nice to rediscover
beauty in a windbreaker, a pair
of jeans, bulging eyes and bony
knees. Like turning over a rock
and finding, amongst the grubs,
a treasure map.
Second cup. Ginger tea to
soothe the (strep) throat.
Blew a stranger the other
night out of pity and people
pleasing. Almost vomited on
the way home out of disgust
and self-loathing. Im a
seesaw. My lows launch me
into highs, my highs plummet
me into lows. Id just wanted
another dopamine rush, just
wanted to get drunk. Called in
sick the next day. And here it
is all on paper, yet another
origami nothing. Fold it into a
shapeless clump, tousle the
edges, hand roll it like a
cigarette brown, sad and
soggy. Say theres meaning
where there isnt any.