I Would Wait 1,000,000 Years

I met Harvard while working as an event assistant at the Halloween party he and his two roommates were throwing. His 6'5" frame and big, goofy grin made me feel uncharacteristically small and safe. I felt guilty that I wasn't actively busting ass the entire evening; Harvard and the other guys kept sidetracking me with great conversation. Harvard in particular seemed to "get it." Our conversations about art and writing and music were fueled by alcohol, yes, but were deep and probing and even challenging.

He lent me his namesake sweatshirt when the night temperature began to nosedive. His friends and roommates knew better than I that an old, worn hoodie bearing the "H" initial was significant and akin to territory being marked; I was just cold and grateful to not be cold any longer.

Harvard and I kissed in his bedroom and it wasn't very good when he rushed in drunkenly, though I was still a bit turned on. I slowed down the pace and it improved technique and sensation. When he pulled me down onto his bed, whiskey rocks sloshing around while cupped in my right hand, I shut it down.

"I like you," I said as we got to out feet, facing one another. "Let's leave it at that and continue getting to know one another."

"Okay," he said amicably. "I like that."

My costume was so understated, my makeup sparse and yet, I received an unending amount of male attention. While successful and living rather lavish lives for dudes in their mid-twenties, I soon picked up on their nerdiness. I wondered how often they encountered cool, hot girls. Being Ivy League-educated, they ran in slightly higher-brow circles than I, though my ability to overwhelm their brains in conversation was satisfying to my ego.

I "worked" the party for twelve hours and then went home to crash. Joseph texted me when he was on his way the next morning. I quickly showered, threw on shorts and a cami, and grabbed the bag of lunch goodies I'd bought for him the day before. Barefoot, I walked it down to where he stood beside his van. We hugged, oh how we hugged, his lips on my bare shoulders and neck, our stomachs kissing fervently as our groins fought to stay in check. He went on and on about my sweetness for buying him food, knowing he'd be locked in a studio for fifteen hours and wouldn't have time to go foraging in the midst of engineering. I looked down shyly, my wet hair falling into my naked face. How interesting that I enjoyed letting him see me without makeup, that he was one of the few who ever had or ever would. How interesting that I'd made out with another man only a few hours earlier and still loved this one more than I'd ever loved anyone in my entire life.

I never used to understand how people could say they loved one person and still be able to connect and get intimate with another. Now I do. I understand because the person I love and want to be with can't or won't or isn't ready to be with me, though I know he wishes that wasn't the case. Maybe someday he will be. In the meantime, I have a life to live, with new people to meet and new experiences to have. I move forward externally, yes, but internally, I would wait forever.

Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:

Ready Aim Fire

Walking to 7-Eleven this morning in new flats, their stiffness rubbed against the backs of my heels, creating blisters. Deja vu shot through my brain to the forefront of my consciousness and I saw us so clearly in that Paris drugstore. I sat in a chair and he knelt down on the floor before me, sliding my foot out of the offending shoe as I extended it towards him like a queen to her minion. Tenderly, he applied a thick bandage across the bloody, oozing blister, gently smoothing and adhering it to my bare skin. He purchased extras to be used over the next few days until I'd healed, until my limp had disappeared and the shoes were sufficiently broken in. Then carefully, he slipped my foot back into the new ballet flat, kissing my knee as he stood, clasping my hands and pulling me up to face him. Lovingly, so lovingly, he kissed me on the mouth and brushed my hair from my face with his hand, his eyes smiling into mine. Walking along the Rue de Rivoli and beyond was instantly painless (physically) and the enjoyment resumed (presumably). Two months later, I filed divorce papers and with them, that memory. The triggers are everywhere, though, and there's no telling when or where they'll be pulled. Ready. Aim. Fire.

Pretentious Indie Song of the Day: