"I'm in bed, I can't sleep; wish you were here."

When I got home tonight, I had a message from Mary expressing this sentiment. In my time I have said this exact thing to so many people that were at the time so far away. I wish I was there often.

Yesterday I got off work, came home and did a little photoshopping, and then went and got a tattoo.

The tattoo parlor in SF is but three doors down from my other job, so afterwards I stopped in to chat with my other boss and have a couple beers.

"A calculator?"
"Yeah," I said, "it's the result of a staff contest. I told my staff that if we made bonus, I'd let them all pick a design, and I'd pick one out of a hat. We made bonus, and I picked a calculator."
"And the numbers on the screen?" My arm is covered in words and numbers.
"415--the area code here. 834--my building number. It's important. I've never lived by myself before, save a week at a time or so."
"But a calculator. I mean, are you really happy with it?"




Because I like the idea that things are quantifiable, and because I'm beginning to understand that things in real life most often only are in hindsight. Maybe because I still adore starting sentances with prepositions even though Mrs. Tisdale, my first grade teacher, warned me against this.

What I mean is that numbers always do the same thing, and I like this. I like the entire idea of this. I like knowing that the same motivations in math will always garner the same outcome granted you approach it correctly.


Before I lived here, I left The Circus in Seattle and came for a weeklong visit; that is when I met Shaun.
And we drank scotch and wine, and he took me to his spacious studio in The Tenderloin, and I was briefly entranced.
It felt kind of like me, my apartments, a life I might have--wanted to have. I saw myself with my own green walls with my own place in The Loin that could be like so many of the city dwelling beautiful shitholes in which I had lived before, but this time, should I acquire it, it would be just mine.

Now I have it, and now he is gone, and I'm beginning to think I might never see him ever again. Why? Maybe because I'm a Pessimist. Or a Nihilist. Or a Masochist. But maybe I'm right--there's that preposition thing again.

The point is that I'm desperate to have him again even in the brevity of his absence, and I'm acting out in ways I just can't quite quantify. Fuck.

Since the fire, the young man in 402 and I have been going about our between-floor-traipsing quite swimmingly. There are nightly nightcaps, and there is venting about work, and there are always a few stories of our oddly similar histories.
Last night there was all of this happening while lounging in his bed downstairs, and then when I did what I have been doing as of late--that being retire to my own apartment alone--and then there is the every nightly and much expected "Goodnight" text. Then there is my similar text back. Then some time later, there is my cellphone again beeping and glowing, and there he is telling me that I can crash downstairs if I should so wish. And then, there is my heady and positively pregnant reply.


What I fail to say is that I myself am lonely, and that he is beautiful and baby faced much like my dear friend Shaun, and that all of our late nights sans-sex and heavy with beers and movies and lots and lots of laughing might just be my way of replacing something I never quite knew that I would miss so much that it physically hurt. I failed to ever mention that I am now pretty sure that in my drunken post-fire state, I suggested we not be intimate purely out of my own fear that Shaun just might be gone for good, and that though I say I fear virtually nothing, I fear this. I fear him gone, and I fear Drew gone if he is gone, and I fear having no one to watch stupid television with on nights when I can't bear being in public and am dying for a platonic companion.

"Yeah." He said. That's it. Just yeah.

My reply?

"K. I'll be down in five."

And then I let him fuck me in a manner that I've felt before--there is a way that boys touch you when they are grasping at straws and they are only finding you.

My only hope is that I can approach this correctly, that I can find him again.

Both of them.

I called Mary in the morning to tell her the whole thing.
Damn, I wish she was here.

1 comment:

huntsmanic said...

that's beautiful, miss miranda may. i'm touched--not by an angel, but nearly. more other than worldly.

the image and header at the top right of my blog is dedicated to you.