Instants after, I came.
With other words I will make it known, I was late like always. Consoling me was an obscure idea, a possible delusion yet not definitely so, that others were further behind than myself. With this mindset, if I were first to be at the promised place, it could seem and it would be as though I were always and able to be in a rush to place myself around another figure, to need some body. What sort of impression was it to be so very willing? The things I could do, I did, to prevent association with the given portrayal. However, even I, who pursues meta-narration does not feel it is always agreeable to be as self-conscious as the above awareness makes me out to be. One should be mindful without inhibiting instinctual behavior. One should be conscious without committing neurosis upon the Self. But how can any of us make sure extremist don’t meet their fatalistic extreme? Awaiting me was a thoughtful gesture. A drink anyone who knew me—which is to say, had been aware enough when around me to take notice was one of the three drinks I only drank. A Black Russian. I certainly had my tastes, as I hoped everyone did. Shying away from what one wanted became obvious with maturity. I was someone who found passivity in taste aggravating. Of course being shy, open-minded or considerable were fine and genuine entitlements. But to say jack and coke is what you’ll take, when it isn’t close to what you want and nothing that anyone is forcing you to have isn’t an admirable quality in being. At the leg of L-shaped bar, we sat with backs to the window and faced a swelling crowd. Red hair wrapped around her shoulders and my boy cut made us eye sores in this room of all males and a few other females with mustaches pasted above their lips. What called for such behavior? No one said they actually knew. But I figured there was no reason other than we lived in Manhattan where people did this all the time. It was appealing that a little hair and glue could change an ordinary day into something remarkable and which could be thought upon. Together we called attention to the men our eyes found attractive. Someone in a gray hoodie. For her, a blonde that was unquestionably not straight. I said I wasn’t attracted to blondes and she asked whether my taste changed with my hair color. I figured it hadn’t. We ordered French 75s. Got a round free. A man came over, his speech slippery, his arms reaching out to both of our chairs. A sort of all including embrace. He wanted to know what we were having. Wanted it, too. Oh, but couldn’t, no not gin and champagne. He couldn’t tank himself tonight. I smiled, slightly, thinking a few bubbles could never be a bad thing. He left, but he’d be back.
She said any interest would keep someone from going away. I found it unfortunate—this separation and expectancy in behavior. Didn’t people retreat from home, pursuing the possibility of meeting someone they hadn’t ever met, but felt—if only even for that night—they wanted to know. And yet here we were, with no obligation to anyone despite what our rings suggested, talking about turning others away. I wondered whether it was hypocritical—if people predicted too many of their experiences and as a result ended up with fewer surprises and artificial intrigue. She assumed correctly and he came, many times, never wanting really to leave, let alone remain alone. Taking up our hands, he saw rings he felt meant marriage. And she told him all these little lies that she didn’t ever mean to be that way, but said just to make stories shorter and lifestyles more of an illusion to marvel at. He became sad, a bit tormented inside with his self against his self. Older, watching friends marry, kids come, feeling he was missing something someone important, as if those extraneous appearances would make his life automatically special. More and more, I witness and hear fragmented confessionals about needing not to be alone in Manhattan. Relations keeping their relation out of fear of approaching the city singularly. Single in the city and everyone was waiting to be approached. Some even made ads on Craigslist, hoping that at the very least they would have someone to dine with. It seemed interesting to me—the tactics and the rules that dating services inspired. I heard a story where after a few dates, a text was sent to come by her usual spot for a drink, he responded, “I don’t feel there was any connection. Good luck on your search.” No bullshit. Just a straight up shot served, swallowed and hopefully digestible. A following night: Although my response was let’s do it some other time. He came over Friday. Not taking what I said to mean anything. It was nice to see him back. Even though, it was three by now and I had no interest waking tomorrow with a guest and separate things we both wanted to do. There was television. Something I never use. But we put in It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and to my surprise, we were both folded over with laughter in the other’s arms. At times we would wait, purposefully, in silence. Only to appreciate this awkwardness we allowed ourselves to maintain. He was more pressing than he’d ever been. But I still mentioned how he made me feel like I was 6. And he said he felt even younger. I said there was nothing to say. Our dialogue always resembled French film noir. We were inverted. Then again that was how and where we met, so maybe we were just conditioned.
His hands are big, his eyes always so small, as if he can barely see. And he says he is so tired. And I know how bad he wants to stay. Even when we would keep our clothes on, I knew he was happy to be there, closer to someone. That someone on nights was me. But I couldn’t have myself do it. Not this time around. And I grabbed his hand instead, saying again how they are always so soft. We held them next to each other. For the first time, I wondered whether the lines ever changed. Would that line on his palm always cut into that other line? We should photocopy our hands, do it ever so often and see what changes. But I didn’t have any ink. Now he was really ready to stay. In Manhattan there are so many people that it’s hard to rationalize why or how you end up leaving and lying down alone. It was 6am and I was lifting the window in my bedroom, closing curtains and pulling my sheets loose. Sitting for a moment, watching him outside my door, waiting to see if I’d call. But I just couldn’t. And instead, I joked about how his coat looked like a dress. I pulled the sides out as he stood considering himself in the mirror. It was a precious moment. And then I pushed him outside the door, not waiting to watch him be taken on the elevator away. Both of us starting this morning, waiting for our bed where we would lie alone.
She said any interest would keep someone from going away. I found it unfortunate—this separation and expectancy in behavior. Didn’t people retreat from home, pursuing the possibility of meeting someone they hadn’t ever met, but felt—if only even for that night—they wanted to know. And yet here we were, with no obligation to anyone despite what our rings suggested, talking about turning others away. I wondered whether it was hypocritical—if people predicted too many of their experiences and as a result ended up with fewer surprises and artificial intrigue. She assumed correctly and he came, many times, never wanting really to leave, let alone remain alone. Taking up our hands, he saw rings he felt meant marriage. And she told him all these little lies that she didn’t ever mean to be that way, but said just to make stories shorter and lifestyles more of an illusion to marvel at. He became sad, a bit tormented inside with his self against his self. Older, watching friends marry, kids come, feeling he was missing something someone important, as if those extraneous appearances would make his life automatically special. More and more, I witness and hear fragmented confessionals about needing not to be alone in Manhattan. Relations keeping their relation out of fear of approaching the city singularly. Single in the city and everyone was waiting to be approached. Some even made ads on Craigslist, hoping that at the very least they would have someone to dine with. It seemed interesting to me—the tactics and the rules that dating services inspired. I heard a story where after a few dates, a text was sent to come by her usual spot for a drink, he responded, “I don’t feel there was any connection. Good luck on your search.” No bullshit. Just a straight up shot served, swallowed and hopefully digestible. A following night: Although my response was let’s do it some other time. He came over Friday. Not taking what I said to mean anything. It was nice to see him back. Even though, it was three by now and I had no interest waking tomorrow with a guest and separate things we both wanted to do. There was television. Something I never use. But we put in It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and to my surprise, we were both folded over with laughter in the other’s arms. At times we would wait, purposefully, in silence. Only to appreciate this awkwardness we allowed ourselves to maintain. He was more pressing than he’d ever been. But I still mentioned how he made me feel like I was 6. And he said he felt even younger. I said there was nothing to say. Our dialogue always resembled French film noir. We were inverted. Then again that was how and where we met, so maybe we were just conditioned.
His hands are big, his eyes always so small, as if he can barely see. And he says he is so tired. And I know how bad he wants to stay. Even when we would keep our clothes on, I knew he was happy to be there, closer to someone. That someone on nights was me. But I couldn’t have myself do it. Not this time around. And I grabbed his hand instead, saying again how they are always so soft. We held them next to each other. For the first time, I wondered whether the lines ever changed. Would that line on his palm always cut into that other line? We should photocopy our hands, do it ever so often and see what changes. But I didn’t have any ink. Now he was really ready to stay. In Manhattan there are so many people that it’s hard to rationalize why or how you end up leaving and lying down alone. It was 6am and I was lifting the window in my bedroom, closing curtains and pulling my sheets loose. Sitting for a moment, watching him outside my door, waiting to see if I’d call. But I just couldn’t. And instead, I joked about how his coat looked like a dress. I pulled the sides out as he stood considering himself in the mirror. It was a precious moment. And then I pushed him outside the door, not waiting to watch him be taken on the elevator away. Both of us starting this morning, waiting for our bed where we would lie alone. 
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