July 17, 2002
In Short
I told him I wouldn't go to bed. And really, after hours in his company, how could I?
I didn't think about how I looked like hell, I didn't think about the funny taste in my mouth. I couldn't let him go. I followed him to the door. I bore the weight of his awkward banter for but a moment, before his dark eyes flickered and the tether that bound me to the rational world snapped. And I just grabbed him and kissed him again, just once, twice, and three times more. I turn away and bid him to go. He grins and does so.
I could lose it all over a boy. I see that now.
There's a paperball on my desk, just unwrinkled to reveal his hand writing scrawled across it, a substitute for poor memory. He was sitting in this chair only an hour ago; he was chatting with my dad as companionably as I could never have hoped.
We sat in the park and played chess. There were cardinals darting in the trees and I muttered my alphabet under my breath, I hesitated on the letter 'K', I was wary of fences...
There is an old English wives' tale that claims if one sees a red bird, start speaking your alphabet. The letter you are on when the bird flies away is the letter of the last name of the man or woman you will marry. If the bird leaves only to land on a fence, that marriage will end in divorce.
Mike chuckles, his eyes scanning the trees.
"I'd have to get a pretty antsy bird to get 'B'. "
I sigh.
I read his tarot cards for him, and they claim a budding romance stands in the way of his future happiness.
He laughs and puts his arms around me. He throws it in my face all night.
We walk one of the trails before it gets too dark. We do all the little excercises along the way. He helps lift me to do pull ups, since I can't bear my own weight. He insists on trying to see if he can carry me on his back.
He succeeds.
We're laying on the sloped sit-up board in the fading daylight, the leaves above us are rustling in the warm July breeze. He pulls me toward him and we kiss, he pulls back and looks into my eyes. He turns away.
"I shouldn't look into your eyes."
He keeps his carefully fixed on the ground. I prod his arm.
"Why?"
"You give me that look and I start to feel..."
He trails off, and I make my own assumptions.
I'm so scared and so wanting.
I can't get enough of him.
This is not how it felt. Not at all how I thought it would feel.
Is there a precursor to love? Or is one to assume that such fixed adoration is love? Is it possible to know a person in eighty hours? When is it okay to spill your soul via your mouth as opposed to your eyes? When do boys start listening, and what do they hear?
What is he thinking? What is he thinking?
What was he going to say?
Can I be honest? I suppose it is my diary. I suppose I owe it to myself. Maybe I should save these thoughts for paper. Maybe they're too raw for words, for pen or board.
Maybe I've assumed things about who I am based on abstract perceptions of who I would be in any given situation.
Maybe I didn't think I'd ever actually like anyone enough.
My eyes are shut and I am putting my hands over them, I am pressing my fingers into the corners where I keep so many dreams. I pluck out the one I would like the most, I swallow it and it goes down and down, it settles in my belly and burns. It's sweet and hot. I can taste it.
It's not as good as one of his kisses.
Can I be honest? I'm going to be honest.
I could let him have me, if only to see those brown eyes sparkle. I could lose my virginity to him, because it would be sure to mean something. I could give it to him, because I'd know it wouldn't be wasted. He touches me and I turn to gold. He whispers and I am hammered filigree.
Obviously not today. Likely not tomorrow. Maybe not in a month or two or seven.
But not never. He's erased that possibility with one swipe of a narrow hand. I might not. But I could.
And that's what matters.
Judge me. I need it so I can ground this hallucination.
astera at 1:03 a.m.