October 30, 2002
Kronos
Sitting in front of the big screen television in Mike's house today, I thought I saw Frida Kahlo reflected out at me. In the murky shadow, my brows had stitched together and I was weeping softly about Diego.
But no weeping today.
Nor yesterday, for that matter.
Hopefully not tomorrow.
Tuesday Mike and I postponed plans of driving to Louisville and instead retired to his house where we romped for two hours with his roommate Kevin's girlfriend's kids, Will, two years of age, and Kelsey, four or five or something.
Will wore no pants for the whole of the affair, and instead one of Kevin's huge shirts. Mike had a hard time keeping a straight face, and I just laughed hysterically at his discomfort. We donned ties, wrapped appropriately around our foreheads, and wrestled/tickled/karate-chopped the children into submission. We built them a house of cardboard boxes. They subsequently destroyed it.
I just grin and grin and grin at him and at some point my face hurts but I don't care.
I don't want to go into detail. But damn, the sex was good.
Don't you laugh at me. I don't want to talk about it and I do. Perhaps this is merely not the forum.
Why do I feel like I must censure myself in my own diary? I just feel like I am soiling the minds of the young and the virginal! Stop me when I do, okay?
Now. No... now. Wait... then. You missed it!
Around one o'clock in the morning, with all of my half-hearted pleas to stay having suddenly solidified, I find that I am curling up next to him and going to bed, and nothing could be so natural or so right.
Nevermind the fact that I had nightmares about my parents calling or chasing me down or my Dad shooting Mike in the leg. Nevermind all of that. I woke up before him in the morning and showered, and made the both of us some hot tea. He drank his with the covers up to his chin. He looks at me, eyes widening with helplessness.
"Make me a shower?" He asks, and I sigh and do so.
"Okay." He steels himself. "I'm going to take off my socks, and then run from the bed to the shower. Okay. Here I go." He sits there, smiling. "Makes you wonder how I get out of bed when you're not here, eh?"
I nod, repressing the urge to grab him and kiss him. If I distract him, he may never get in the shower.
Do you know what it's like to want to wrap someone up and put them in your pocket, just like Rivers Cuomo? Do you know what it's like to love someone so much there's only the hint of something else in the back of your mind? More than a hint, perhaps, but something you ignore all the same?
There are lines, of course.
And you cross most of them.
And everyday there will be a new joke, and it'll be hysterically funny. And everyday there will be the old jokes, and those will just get funnier.
I can kiss him once, or ten times, and it's still sweet. It's not always the end of the world, it's not always desperate. But it always means something.
I'll look at him, and he'll mirror my gaze. Our love is like one horrendous inside joke without a punch line.
I wish I could make something of this madness that is my life. I wish all my straw wrapper wishes came true. I will comfort myself with the bits of sanity and sanctity that I have, and that I at least get the best of the wishes.
He should be home by now.
Someday, I'll come home, too.
astera at 11:25 p.m.