He cried over hurting his body with so many substances, and I cried with him, because I’d been hurting my body and soul, too… just in other ways. Including boys.
And after it shattered today and I stared after it and then I gently cleaned it up, I sat down at my desk and imagined looking for a mug that’s somehow indestructible… but I realized then that, even if it couldn’t break, I could still lose it.
And while James is clearly better at playing chess and having a cool mustache and riding his bike uphill for a long time and watching sports, I’m pretty good at other things: spinning words, strumming the guitar, obsessing over rivers, finding good coffee shops… it all balances out nicely.
Back in the car, I kept sticking my hand out the window, feeling the cold air, and then placing my cold hand on my cheek. “This is what’s real,” I whispered to myself, more than once.
He was, I believe, so intimidated by this well-written rap I’d composed in less than three minutes that he couldn’t bring himself to respond. Oh well.
These boys made me feel like a ghost. Like they couldn’t, or didn’t want, to see me at all; like they’d rather hold my okay body and kiss my alright mouth with their eyes closed so they could imagine I was the girl with big boobs, the girl with the great hair and make-up, the better, beautiful girl from last summer.
I looked at both of the men, considering the clothes they were wearing. “Do either of you have a phone?” No. “Do you want me to call 911?” Yes.
He shook his head no. “The only scary thing was when my instructor asked me to intentionally spin the plane out. I had to do this because he needed to see that I’d know how to correct it.” I loved this. I will always remember this about him.
I replied that I’d be flying into Phoenix this March and then road-tripping through western CO.
“Can I meet you in Phoenix?” he asked.
I was coming into a foggy Birmingham now, red and green and orange and yellow, and there was this mist over everything that looked like ghosts; it overwhelmed me.