Walkabout Part 2: We are all over the place.


I don't even know what to say.

In fact, I'm not sure what day it is there--was it five nights ago? It was the night of the fifth, right? When I left you on a cold street corner in Billyburg a little too early having sighted an empty cab. I just wasn't ready, and it's weird because I'm here, I made it, and I don't feel ready to be here.

My whole body hurts. I've walked miles and miles in the last few days, and I'm just so goddamned tired, and I got my period the other day and fuck if I could figure out how to buy tampons in China. People [obviously] speak English here so tampons are brilliantly easy to purchase, but like everything they're so expensive that while standing at the checkout counter I pondered whether or not they were composed of solid gold.

I've made some friends. Canadians tend to gravitate toward me and thankfully they're everywhere. Last night I met this girl Dayna from Toronto and we went to this warehouse bar called Workhouse--upstairs there's this enclosed deck with a half-open leaded glass peaked skylight, and it reminded me of an odd hybrid of Tandem on Starr and The Hemlock on Polk. But Sally, those two places are 3000 miles away from each other and I'm even farther than that from either. And I miss you so much that it hurts.

Last night, underneath the Brooklynesque skylight on the San Franciscan smoking deck, Dayna asked me what, if anything, had I left behind in New York.

"Do you have a boy back home?" she asked me after relating a similar story of leaving a boy in Italy for the repose of the southern hemisphere.

Not exactly, I tell her. No, I guess not, I say. It's complicated, it's so fucking complicated for me, and when I left you on that street corner I knew that no matter where I went that night I was bound to regret not making the opposite choice, so I shut myself in the back seat and rode silently to South Brooklyn already missing your face.

A few nights previous I was laying in Noah's bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering what it is that I would miss the most of New York. The view from The Penthouse maybe, or a PBR in a frosty glass on a sunny patio, that stroll up 1st to 12th when I'm coming to the East Village on the F. What will I remember the most fondly? After a while, what will really stick with me?

I knew it would happen, but I had to decide so quickly and I didn't know what to do. So I left my bag there promising to return, and I left your goddamn angelface on a fucking cold street corner and traded it for a couple hours of hormonal freedom, a firm grip on my hip, a strong hand about my shoulder, a thick shock of my hair wrapped tightly in his fingers, and fuck. Sally. It was just so goddamned wrong. It was all so fucking weird and yes, I mean the fucking. It just felt so foreign and strange and completely unlike anything that one might imagine sex might be with someone you've been sleeping with on and off for seven or eight months, and I mean, I knew I would regret leaving you in Williamsburg that night. But I never thought the regret would set in as soon as a couple of hours later.

But I'm here, Sally. I'm on the continent that has graced my dreams for 26 years, and all I can think of is your perfect little face and your puffy coat and red curls, your overstuffed couch and the bottles and bottles of wine, and the way that you might, if you were near, tell me that this too will pass, that this tangled web will soon unravel and we will stand triumphant. Because we are young! We are all over the place, and we are restless. We are 32 and we are Brooklyn. We are San Francisco. We are both coasts and hemispheres, we are curly, curly hair. We are art, we are craft, we are so fucking smart, we are sad and poor and laughing fucking faces.

We are love, Sally.

And I miss you like a heartbeat.


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