July 10, 2002
Mobile Concrete
Written yesterday, by glare of late afternoon sunlight and the scratch of a borrowed pen:
The side of the U-Haul says 'America's Moving Adventure.'
Indeed, it is not.
Sitting on the asphalt, the concrete driveway of Mike's soon-to-be home, musing, out of the way and yet simultaneously in the way, this is me. There is little accompaniament: the grinding of large pieces of furniture being dragged out of the truck and into the garage, their curt, muffled intructions to eachother.
Mike is little. He is doing a fair share of door holding.
And now the roar of the engine as the truck is pulled slightly forward to allow for the passage of an unusually large piece of furniture. The door is ajar. There is a beeping, like that of a heart monitor.
I am thinking of just one heart right now, that of a boy who fumbled sentiment and kissed my fingers in its wake.
He wears glasses. Oval lenses.
The sun is hot, my hair is heavy on my neck and blown awry by the warm breeze. I pull the cuffs of my jeans up, and my pale ankles breathe. I'm sweating, I think, paranoid. Great. Now I'm going to smell.
We're going to the library, or dinner. Maybe both.
I like him. I like his little mistakes that are so much like my own, I like that he keeps his eyes closed even when mine are open.
He referred to me just once as his girlfriend. And I am. And it's weird and cool at the same time. And I like both feelings. I like that I don't know him so well yet. I like that he surprises me and I like that I surprise him.
The U-Haul has a picture of soap-box derby cars on it. I like the ones with Indians on them.
They sound like they're having children. Sharp commands of "Push!" are followed by strained groans, and there is screaming.
They're boys in their 20's. They're moving a wide screen tv up the stairs of the back deck.
Mike doesn't seem like a man to me. Though he is, I guess.
He smiled at me last night in the dark of his car. 311 was playing as I kissed him, as I was rather fervently kissed.
It scared me. I thought of Ryan, thought of lies. I thought of the secrets girls must keep, and those they must share. I thought about myself. Is it right to let another man tread on unstable ground? Is he wearing proper shoes? Is he the type to brave the rain without an umbrella, or has he brought one big enough to share?
I told him I was a virgin. He told me he wasn't. He told me about his ex-girlfriend of four years, he told me how after two it just seemed they were a "sure thing." He cast his eyes downward. He gave a sort of pathetic, regretful chuckle. He said he hoped it didn't make me think less of him.
I don't.
He brought me ice water in an Arwen glass.
It's cold.
I'm not.
astera at 11:49 a.m.